


Direwolf Shepherd

by Keymasten



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, OCs - Freeform, Old Nan was right!, Religion, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Warging, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keymasten/pseuds/Keymasten
Summary: A stranger in Green Robes bring the Stark's a mystery. Direwolves have come to Winterfell, brought by a Shepherd. He holds many secrets, and perhaps some answers. AU





	1. Howling Winds

/

"What's that sound?"

"Up ahead m'lord, there's a young man sitting in the middle of the road"

The guard, dressed in boiled leather holding a shield bearing a grey direwolf, seemed shaken.

"Any inclination as to why?"

The guard turned back toward the distant sound. A low voice singing some strange tune. The group couldn't make out any words or rhyme.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Paramount and Warden of the North urged his horse forward at a slow gallop. Behind him, his three sons, ward and six guards followed. They were returning from a short tour of the local lands. Bran had just turned ten and it was time to ease him out of the castle, get him used to the North outside of Winterfell's walls. They were passing through the Wolf's Wood toward the ancestral home of the Starks.

As the figure finally came into sight, Lord Stark began to realize why the-boy? man?-was so unsettling.

In the dirt of the road he sat, with broad shoulders and long black hair that was shaved on the sides and put into a thick braid. Unfortunately that was all the description he could think of. The rest of the man was covered by a large thick green robe. The robe was clasped over his right shoulder and resting opposite was a pauldron with what looked like a moose skull attached to it. As they neared he could see a necklace of various sized fangs, feathers and… teeth? around the stranger's neck.

The most confusing part of the entire outfit was the mask. A large piece of white wood covered from his chin to well past his hairline wrapping around his ears. Short branches covered in red leaves crested the mask like a crown. The mask was carved with lines flowing from top to bottom in deep clean cuts. There were eyes cut in the mask, with upturned corners. The nose was long and crooked with a tree knot taking the place of a nostril, the mouth was set closed stretching to the right giving the entire mask an unsettling grinning façade; as if the mask had told a jape no one else understood. The macabre finishing touch was lines of some red liquid dripping from the eyes and corner of the mouth. The mask as a whole horrifyingly beautiful and reminded Ned of the Heart Tree in Winterfell.

The tone being sung was a slow longing tune, the words seemed to be a mixture of The Old Tongue and something else. He pulled the reins on his horse and stopped. For some strange reason Lord Stark felt as if he was being rude by interrupting the song but chose to press on.

"Excuse me, my companions and I were hoping to use this road, I would ask that you move."

The man's humming stopped abruptly at Lord Stark's first words. The man looked up and make eye contact with Lord Stark. The man then stood, he nearly as tall as Ned. He wasn't wearing boots but some sort of strange sandals made of red twine.

Lord Stark realized the man hadn't answered, he was still staring.

"Greetinz, I vas vaiting for somevon to come down ze road." He said.

The man coughed to clear his throat.

"Would you be able to help me, I'm in search of something and need directions."

The man's accent was still there but only slightly.

"I very well could, that would depend on what you sought." Ned replied.

The man chuckled, "Of course, I would introduce myself first, I am Beorn. I am a Shepard and I seek a Godswood"

Ned hesitated but felt compelled to help the stranger, as long as he posed no danger of course. "If you seek to worship the Old Gods, I would not be opposed to you praying before the Godswood of Winterfell."

By this time the rest of the party had caught up with him. Some of them looked very disturbed by the sight of the stranger but Bran was teeming with excitement and curiosity. Jon on the other hand had his sword at the ready should a threatening move be made. His attention was drawn back to Beorn once he realized the man had tensed up.

Warily he addressed him once again, "Beorn? Are you well?"

Beorn suddenly started chuckling, confusing the entire group. Beorn then dropped to one knee.

"Forgive me my King, I should have realized the Gods would steer me true. You must understand though, to meet the Stark of Winterfell so easily and to be invited to see Winterfell is not what I expected when I awoke this morning"

That avalanche of statements shocked the entire group of northmen silent.

"I will admit I have been searching for you my King, the sudden rain a few nights past damaged my map and I'm afraid my charges have a bad habit of wandering."

"Your charges?"

"Yes in fact they are the reason I've come south. I've been charged to bring the Stark in Winterfell – "

"WOLF!"

The entire party snapped to Theon Greyjoy who already had an arrow knocked and aimed into the foliage along the side of the road. The guardsmen ran and surrounded Lord Stark swords at the ready. Before any man could make a move Beorn abruptly walked toward the wolf.

Lord Stark was about to shout for the mad man to step aside. The animal was larger than any wolf he had ever seen and there was a predatory intelligence behind its eyes. It matched the stories he had been told as a child, it had to be a direwolf, the long gone beast that his house used as a sigil. When Beorn began talking in The Old Tongue, not just talking but scolding, he could do nothing but watch incredulously. Beorn walked right up to the obviously large and dangerous direwolf, it came up to Beorn's chest and had dark brown fur with patches of red along its back.

Robb seemingly snapped first, "Are you mad, get away from it!"

Beorn turned back, "Why would I do that? Crag here needs to learn he can't just run off from his pack whenever he wants"

Then returned his attention to the wolf, "Crag" apparently and resumed his scolding. Slowly the beast sat down and kept its head pointed at Beorn's feet.

Ser Rodrick leaned closer to Lord Stark and whispered, "Are we sure the young man is all there my lord? Perhaps bringing him to Winterfell is a mistake?"

"I'm not sure," Lord Stark hesitated before finally responding, "What I am certain of is that he said companions. My question is, where are the others?"

"King Stark!"

Rodrik and Lord Stark turned back to see Beorn walking towards them, Crag following at his heels.

"My apologies, Crag here has run ahead, the rest of his pack should be along soon. I must ask that no one approach the bitch."

"Beorn, how many direwolves are with you?"

Lord Stark paused to absorb the absurdity of the question he just asked.

"Well there's Crag of course, he's a juvenile from a pack that was killed off. There's Maw and his two pups from one of his last mates who died after the birth. Finally there's Green Eyes, she's pregnant and will be having her litter soon. She's the reason we need to find a Heartree, I need to feed the pups Weriwood Sap after their birth."

Lord Stark kept himself calm and collected while digesting the information. After a few seconds he simply gave up and decided to deal with it later, after a cup or two of wine.

"Are they nearby?"

"Yes, they will follow us through the woods. Crag will stay by me."

Lord Stark turned back to Robb, his eldest son would one day being making much bigger decisions as the Lord of Winterfell and needed to get accustomed to such responsibility. His son gave Beorn a searching look then slowly nodded.

"Very well, do you have a horse Beorn?"

"No my King, I prefer my feet personally"

Also, Lord Stark noted, he'd have to find out why he was being called a "King".

/

Ned breathed a sigh of relief as Winterfell's walls drew near. The sight of the keep always set his mind at ease. He chanced a look back at their follower; Beorn was singing again but quietly, seemingly to only himself and Crag. It was unnerving, a man bringing long extinct legends into his house. Ned wasn't sure he could take much more.

As their group entered the gates he saw his wife and daughters waiting for them, quickly dismounted he rushed towards them.

"Jory! Whatever you see stay calm, we have important guests with us."

"Ned what's going on? Who's with you?"

"Farlen! Clear out some space in the kennels, move those smithy supplies being stored there into the tower"

The household rushed to comply with Lord Stark's orders.

"Ned what is going- BY THE SEVEN!"

Lady Stark's scream drew the attention back to the gate where a strange man in green walked through with five massive wolves. One obviously pregnant.

"Ned what is going on?!"

"I'll explain later. Children! Gather round."

The Stark pack gathered around their father, Robb and Jon stood in front of their younger siblings. Bran and Arya were looking past them in awe at the beasts and even Sansa seemed curious but stood resolutely beside her mother.

"Beorn, do I have your word that those wolves will not harm anyone within these walls?"

Beorn stepped forward the bitch of the pack, Green eyes, following closely. He stopped a few feet before the Starks and knelt.

"Is it time already to confirm the vow?" Beorn reached into his cloak, withdrawing a bronze blade with a simply white wood hilt inlaid with intricate rune-work. Focusing on the knife he didn't see the confused look shared between Lord Stark and Maester Luwin.

"I Beorn, Son of Torrhen due swear by my soul and blood," Beorn carved a circle into his palm, bringing a shriek from Sansa and Catelyn. "in front of the gods of wood and stone, sky and sea, that I shall be your Shepard. I shall care for your woods and wolves. I shall teach your children the old stories so their lessons will never be forgotten. My sons and daughters shall follow me in this oath. I serve the Stark of Winterfell, The King of Winter"

Beorn finally looked up, stretching out his hand to Lord Stark expectantly. Only to see a face of confusion and shock.

"My King, what is wrong. Have I performed the ceremony wrong?"

"Beorn… what are you talking about. What was that?"

"What do you mean" Beorn slowly rose.

"Beorn I have no idea what that was or what you're doing here."

Seemingly shocked, Beorn took a step forward causing the guards to tense.

"What I'm doing is reaffirming the oath of the Shepherd. I'm taking my place as the Shepherd of Winterfell, The Shepherd of the Starks."

Bran spoke up next.

"Father what does he mean by Shepard? We don't have any sheep in Winterfell."

"King Stark… how could you not know about the Shepherds? All the Stark heirs are taught as part of their lessons!"

Beorn shouted, his hands shaking. Eddard slowly walked forward, gently taking Beorn's hands and taking the knife out of it.

"Beorn, I am the second son of Lord Rickard Stark. My brother and father died together before the start of Robert's Rebellion."

"You… were never told… Then you never found the books I take it?" Beorn was calming down.

"No I don't know what books you speak of."

"Your father would have passed the Stark's personal histories onto your brother when he became Lord Stark. Since that didn't happen the books must still be somewhere in Winterfell. You must find these books Lord Stark. There a number of rituals that must be completed. If only we had known… my father and I would have come sooner."

Beorn took a deep breath, "I must send a message to my father."

"I'll tell my Maester to prepare a raven."

"Raven? Why? I just need to find an owl. I'll handle it my King. First I need to ensure that Green Eyes is properly cared for."

Beorn turned back to the direwolves and called out in the Old Tongue. The wolves immediately surrounded Green Eyes and followed Beorn.

"Which way to the Godswood?"

/

Ned closed the door to his study and poured three cups of wine. It was the following morning and his night hadn't been as restful as he would have liked.

"I've already explained how we found him."

He passed the goblets to his wife and Maester Luwin. "What I need to decide is what to do next"

"Ned you can't possibly be thinking of letting him stay, he's obviously mad and those beasts are dangerous."

"But what if he's not mad Cat? I know there were some things father told Brandon that I wasn't privy to. Things I only learnt about after reading through his journals."

"Lord Stark, perhaps we should first try and find these histories he spoke of. If they are real, then they are Stark heirlooms. Once we sort the truth from the lies, we can act. Until then, Beorn seems to be the only one the direwolves will listen to and having the first live direwolves in centuries here in Winterfell will be a strong symbol of power."

"Perhaps." Ned took a sip "Perhaps you are right Luwin. You and I will begin searching for them. I'll comb the study and the older rooms. Check the library and get some of the guards to help you with the old tower. I'll also have to read through the journals again. Maybe I missed something."

"I'll go check on the children, Arya and Bran have been begging to be allowed into the Godswood. They want to see the direwolves."

"I need to speak to Beorn anyways, tell them to meet me in the courtyard after lunch."

/

"Do you think we'll get to play with pups? Will father let us name them? I hope so! I'd name them after warriors like Nymeria and Visenya."

"I'd name them after the Kingsguard, they would be strong like knights with names like Duncan and Barristan!"

Jon and Robb watched from the side, listening to their sibling.

"Jon, What do you think of Beorn?"

"I'm not sure, he knows things that Lord Stark should. I don't know how he can command direwolves. I'm wary of him" The Bastard of Winterfell admitted.

"He reminds me of the stories Old Nan would tell us about the Green Men. But aren't they supposed to be in the south, near the Isle of Faces?"

"Aye and he called himself a Shepard, like it's a title."

Their father entered the clearing and addressed them, "Children, it's time to go. Remember do not approach the direwolves and listen to what I say."

A chorus of "Yes father" answered him.

They walked through Winterfell coming to the entrance of the Godswood. Ned entered first, walking with caution. In the Godswood he saw the Heart Tree and pond that characterized Winterfell's shrine to the Old Gods.

The Starks noticed the wolves first. The juvenile, Crag, was sitting on a small hill that the path crossed beside. He snapped his head toward the Starks but made no moves, he simply watched as they passed by. Laying by the pond was the largest of the pack, Maw. A massive brown beast slightly bigger than Crag, he looked to be resting. His grey eyes seemed to draw Ned's and the two locked gazes for what felt like hours.

"Look Father, they're so cute."

Not far from Maw were two pups with the same fur colour as their father. The two pups were as big as hunting dogs and seemed to be playing, oblivious to the new arrivals.

Ned could see Green Eyes laying on a bed of red leaves, her swollen stomach pronounced by her grey and black fur.

"Father is that the mother? How long until she gives birth?"

"I don't know Arya, it should be soon. I doubt she can get much bigger."

"Father, where is Beorn?"

"I'm not sure, none of the guards saw him leave."

The surface of the pond broke with a splash. Ned pulled his son Bran back behind him. A man pulled himself out of the hot spring. Long black hair laying across his shoulders and back. Standing to his impressive height clad only in his small clothes, he finally turned. Sansa's face developed a deep flush. His form was marred with various scars along his chest and shoulders, his forearms and legs were similarly marked. His face was long with a flat nose and grey eyes. In fact, a quiet part of Sansa's mind noted that he looked somewhat like Jon and her father; not exactly, but some of his features matched quite well.

Beorn seemed to finally take notice of his guests and bowed his head.

"My King."

"My apologies for intruding Beorn, perhaps you could dress yourself in the presence of my daughters?"

"Of course my King" Beorn moved to the pile of cloth near Green Eyes and began dressing. "I'm surprised King Stark, I didn't expect your visit so soon. Have you found the Stark Histories?"

"I'm afraid not, I have people searching as we speak though. How are you settling in Beorn? I was told you did not sleep in the room I had had prepared for you in the Keep."

"Yes, I thank you for your courtesy my King, but until the pups are born I'm afraid I must stay by Green Eyes side. When she has her litter, I will gladly share your table and hospitality."

"Can we name the pups Shepard?"

"Arya!" Ned rebuked his youngest daughter.

Beorn chuckled, "Perhaps you shall Princess, I'm not sure how many pups there will be but my father told me that Green Eyes shall be the one to bring direwolves back to Winterfell, and my father's green sight is rarely wrong."

"Your father has the greensight?"

Beorn made his way to Green Eyes with a dish of water offering it to her.

"Yes, my father is the Great Shepard, the Great Shepard must always have greensight."

"Do you have it?"

"Unfortunately I have a very weak talent. I sometimes have vague dreams, my younger sister Iona however, has very strong and vivid visions. It was on her advice that I set out with the pack."

Bran moved closer to Beorn, excitement evident in his eyes.

"Green Sight is real? I thought it was just a myth like wargs and giants!"

Beorn looked down at the lad and frowned. "Now who has been telling you such ridiculous lies? There have been many Starks who were wargs, and giants have walked this earth as long as the First Men and the Children"

"Listen please don't lie to my brother, Old Nan told us all about the old fairy tales"

Beorn pierced Sansa with a sharp glare, "I had such a dream a few nights before I met King Eddard."

Beorn took a seat on a stump away from the pond, the children and Lord Stark drew closer. Bran, Arya and Rickon sat at his feet.

"I saw a forest covered in snow, with trees made of stone. A horn blew and the mist cleared, Direwolves emerged and circled me." The Starks were entranced, all of them held their breath. "A great cry came from the south, a falcon had fallen to its death. The pack moved south. It was a terrible thing, Direwolves do not belong in the south. I followed them until they crossed a narrow bridge and watched as they each melted under the southern sun and disappeared."

Ned looked over his children, then back to Beorn. The howl of a wolf broke the reverential silence of the glade. Beorn leapt up and ran to Green Eyes side.

"The litter is coming!" Turning back quickly to face Ned while pulling a pack from the base of a tree and shifting through the contents. "My King your entire family needs to be here, send someone to fetch your wife!" He picked up a small stone bowl and walked towards the Heart Tree. "Will you trust me Lord Stark? The next hour is going to be very important."

Ned looked to his children seeing only worry and sympathy on their faces, steeling himself he shed his cloak and stepped forward. "What do you need Beorn?"

/

As Catelyn entered the Godswood, she reflected how she only ever entered to retrieve, or speak with, her husband. She had never felt comfortable under the eyes of the white trees. She preferred her sept and statues. She heard another howl, they had started shortly before Arya had found her in the keep. Catelyn wouldn't lie, she was somewhat curious. After all, direwolves were legends of myth to a woman from the Riverlands.

As she walked farther down the path she resolved to ask Ned to have the stranger leave as soon as possible. She would not have some savage staying in her home, Cat had brought up the possibility that Beorn was a wildling; her husband had simply told her being born North of the Wall was no crime.

Laying at the base of the Heart Tree was the direwolf mother in the middle of labour; kneeling next to her was Beorn, sitting nearby was her husband and children. Bran and Arya were trying to get a good look, while Sansa held onto Rickon near Robb.

Beorn pulled a small grey form to his chest, wrapping it in a cloth before laying it down. Cat slowly walked closer until Ned noticed her. He rose quickly and approached her then smiled softly.

"Cat come, Beorn says we need you here."

Without even waiting for a response, he gently tugged her to his side. Beorn had set aside another pup and turned towards her.

"Queen Stark, I'm glad you came, I'll just be a moment then you and your children will need to help me."

She went to her youngest, Rickon eagerly crawling into her arms. She paused long enough to give Snow a glare, he wisely moved away from the family, farther back to the pond.

A small group of six babies all eagerly fed off their mother. Cat smiled softly, the mother was simply laying there exhausted but there was a look in her eyes of deep satisfaction. Beorn took a small stone bowl and his bronze knife from earlier and leaned close the tree, her husband seemed confused.

"Beorn what are you doing?"

The stranger replied without straying from his work, "The pups will need to be bonded to the Starks, since their mother wasn't; while we're doing that you and the Queen should offer something to the parents as a token of thanks. I'll need some weirwood paste and then something from all of you." He pressed his knife flat against the white bark, slowly red sap began to leak out and trail along the blade. The sap coated the flat of the knife which Beorn scrapped it into the dish he held. He slowly filled the bowl twice more until there was a thimble or two of sap. He returned to the group approaching Ned in particular.

"My King, please give me your hand."

Cat wanted to say something but Ned caught her eyes so she held her tongue. Ned reached for the knife, she heard Beorn mutter something about "-the fingertip". Her husband quickly cut along his thumb, then following Beorn's instructions, dipped his bleeding thumb into the paste and walked over to Maw and bent down. She held her breath and clutched her son to her.

The attack never came, instead Maw lapped and nuzzled into Ned's hand. Everyone released a collective breath. Robb stepped forward and offered his finger to Beorn who simply smiled and repeated the process. Robb picked up a grey pup who struggled until the thumb was presented to it, then it eagerly devoured the red sap. Slowly, the rest of the Stark's picked up their pups, Ned took Rickon and helped him pick a dog, he was still very young and didn't really understand what was going on but enjoyed petting the pup anyways. Cat took her turn, marvelling at the story she'd have to tell her family the next chance she got.

As everyone settled with their new companions, Cat was ready to leave and return to the Keep but Beorn's voice stopped her.

"Jon? There's still one left."

The bastard boy was standing closer, watching with envious eyes and seemed startled when his name was called. Cat angrily narrowed her eyes. Before she could inform Beorn of his status, the bastard did it for her.

"I'm not a Stark, Beorn, I'm a Snow."

Smirking, Cat was satisfied, before noticing Ned's frown.

"Is King Stark not your father? Does the blood of the North not flow in your veins? Beorn responded, obviously confused.

"Jon is my natural born son, but is the son of another woman" Ned easily answered, agitating Cat at how easily he admitted it, without a hint of shame.

"King Stark, I don't understand, I know the name Snow is used for bastard children but he is still your son. One day he will act as a bodyguard, general or even bannerman to your heir. This ritual will acknowledge and fortify their tie."

Cat had heard enough as this wildling continued to argue in Snow's favour; but to suggest that he would one day be a Lord! This was too much.

"You have no authority here! My husband is the Stark in Winterfell and you shall obey him." As she stood, her tone became increasingly venomous, shocking all of her children.

Jon looked down, a heartbroken look crossing his face.

"King Stark! You allow your wife to demean your son so?" until Beorn turned on his father.

Again, before Ned could even respond Cat spit faster, "Snow should be grateful for his life, it is far better than most bastards are afforded. He could have been sent off to some place to work the fields until his death!"

The clearing was silent, her children's faces were frozen in shock and even little Rickon looked upset. Robb wore a mixture of disbelief. It was when her eyes turned to her husband that she realized she had errored.

The Quiet Wolf, they called her husband. Many took the name as a play on Ned's stoic demeanor. What many forgot was that a wolf on the prowl was silent as the wind. Ned was not a man of fiery temper, his anger was chilling and hard. His face resembled the stone statues of his ancestors in that moment.

She did not hate the boy, but he was a constant reminder of the stain on her family's honour, of a possible threat to her children. The lessons of her childhood rang in her head. She had allowed Snow to live a good life, he took lessons under Maester Luwin and was trained by Ser Rodrick. A direwolf, a living sigil of the Starks, at his side could very well sway Lords to him. He was already the spitting image of Ned, the wolf would only add to the connection, another step above her eldest. Nightmares of a rebellion still plagued her. Visions of Winterfell being taken, Robb brought before the usurper in Winterfell's throne room. In her husband's place sat a mirror image of Eddard while bastard colours flew over her home while the Lords of the North bowed with smiles on their faces.

Ned was a Lord Paramount, who preferred his time with his children to be calm. Cat had never touched Snow, she had perfected the art of conveying warning through her eyes. She wanted to ensure he never forgot his place, never forget what his station was. As the Blackfyre Rebellion showed Westeros, a bastard shown too much favour was a dangerous thing.

"Lady Stark. Return to the keep and wait in my study."

Catelyn couldn't believe what she was hearing, "Ned-"

"Now." His orders were calm and unrelenting.

Cat once again looked to her children, they were hurt and confused; Robb looked upset. As she turned to leave, she glanced back at the bastard one last time expecting to see a cruel smile. Instead, Snow's eyes were on his feet, a frown on his lips and shoulders hunched. As the Lady of Winterfell left the Godswood she did not feel anger, only shame.

/

Jon watched his father standing stock still in the clearing. No one said a word. The only sounds were the cries of the newborn pups. Lord Stark turned and looked at him, Jon couldn't stop himself from quickly focusing on his feet instead. He was embarrassed, if Beorn had just let things be then Lady Stark would never have snapped like that.

Again, Jon was being a burden to his father. Sometimes, late at night when he couldn't sleep, Jon wished that his father hadn't brought him back. He wished that he was left…wherever it was his mother was from, at least there he wouldn't be in this state of limbo. As the son of Lord Stark, Jon was above the smallfolk, yet at the same time not a member of the nobility. He was given deference because of his blood ties to the Warden of the North but in practice he was no more important than a member of the household, like Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin. Jon hated wondering what his future would hold, by this point he knew better than to dream. Feeling his eyes burn, Jon turned to follow Lady Stark.

"Jon", the quiet voice of Lord Stark halted him mid-step.

He turned slowly, keeping his head down. "Jon look at me", Jon slowly raised his eyes to meet Lord Stark's.

"You belong with us, never think otherwise." Lord Stark seemed to hesitate and glanced to where his wife last stood, "I did not realize Cat felt that strongly. This is my fault and I will make it right."

Jon assumed his father would stride out then and there to apologize to his lady wife, instead he returned to Beorn and picked up the smallest pup, the only one unclaimed. It was white, with blood red eyes; Lord Stark put him into Jon's arms, Beorn joined the pair and held out the knife. Jon wanted to refuse, he tried to say as much, if not for the runt in his arms licking his face and drawing his attention. Looking down at the small wolf, Jon couldn't bring himself to protest. He slowly cut his thumb, dipped it into the cup and held it to the pup; he waited for the rejection, surely if these creatures were meant for the Starks they would know he was not one. No growls or bites came, just the cool tongue as the pup eagerly lapped at his finger.

He smiled softly, not noticing the same smile reflected on his father and Beorn's faces, "Hello there… hello… Ghost."

/


	2. Something in the Snow

Catelyn looked around her husband's solar. It was smaller than the one she remembered her Father using. There was no windows, just a door leading out to the Family Wing of the Keep and another that accessed a small dining room. There was little decoration, at least decoration in the southern sense, no gold or jewels. When Cat first arrived she'd thought the solar unbefitting of a Lord Paramount.

She'd learnt to see the luxuries that marked it out as a room of the Warden of the North: the huge bear pelts that covered the floor, a polished axe with a whittled shaft, a Moose head carved from wood which sat above the hearth, a set of dull silver cups with green tinted accents sat on to the side near some wine, a stone bowl carved with runes rested beside a large bookcase made from unique wood from the Neck, and a greatsword wrapped by a rusted chain sat in a place of honour near the far door. Not to mention the large tapestries that covered the walls. They were done in a northern style, thick seams with bright and distinct colours. They depicted events reaching back thousands of years, the oldest sat behind the Lord's chair that had supposedly been redone around the time of the Conquest, depicting a man with a wolf pelt cloak standing before what could only be the Wall. Things that she had once taken for cheap trinkets in fact marked the North's loyalty to her husband, to his family.

Cat poured herself some wine and stood near the fire, a servant had kindled it low, as they did every morning. There was some fresher kindling, Ned must have been in here before going to the Godswood. Cat shivered, recalling the look Ned had given her when he dismissed her. She straightened from her hunch, no matter what she had said, she would ensure Ned understood that she was his wife, not a child to be disciplined. Downing the rest of her cup, she heard footsteps echoing down the hall outside.

Ned came in, silently poured himself some wine and sat. Then quiet as his moniker, he took a moment to rearrange some papers on his desk.

"Please sit Cat."

He sounded calmer. she took the chair opposite and waited. Ned looked up and she saw the conflict in his eyes. Her husband was unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry I spoke so harshly in front of the children. I should have been more controlled."

Cat didn't feel the need to retort. Ned rubbed his eyes and sat back in his chair.

"I'll speak with Arya tonight, she was incensed when you left."

"It's time she began taking things more seriously." She said.

"Cat, this has nothing to do with Arya's… willful nature. You insulted Jon, she won't forgive that easily. You know she idolizes him."

That got her blood running. She loved her daughter, but she had the "Wolf Blood" as Ned called it and rejected any attempts at acting as a Lady should.

"Perhaps if you had fostered Snow elsewhere this would not be happening."

"I told you then and I'll tell you now, Jon will remain here."

"Ned, do you ever wonder why we've never had offers of fostering?" Her questions threw him off balance, not for long though.

"Catelyn, you cannot believe that the Lords of the North have been kept away because Jon lives in these halls."

"He does not just 'live in these halls'! He is treated nearly as true born! You allow him liberties no bastard should be afforded. Why would your vassals want their heirs to be sent somewhere they'd be treated the same as your bastard? Why else have we received no offers?"

Cat had been holding back on this point for the last few years. As much as she loathed the idea of sending her children away from her side, she could clearly recall the fosterlings who'd come to Riverrun with the Lords to meet with her father. Little Petyr had fostered at Riverrun and she had fond memories of her foster-brother. It was somewhat insulting that no one had proposed Bran or Rickon, or even Robb could find a place with them; not that she would agree to it, but it was the principal of the thing.

"We have."

"What?"

Ned went to refill his cup, keeping his back to her.

"We have had offers. For most of the children… even Jon."

Cat let him fill her cup as well.

"And why did you not share these offers with me?"

Ned had the decency to look away.

"Please Ned. Give me an honest answer."

"I knew that you would push to send Jon away. But if I send Jon to the Hornwoods or the Tallharts, the rest of the Lords would expect Bran to do the same, some would even ask for Arya. Fosterings quickly lead to betrothals, something the children aren't ready for."

"Sending a bastard to foster is not an open invitation!" Cat protested.

Ned sent her a strange look, "Cat, a Great House does not send its children out freely. No disrespect to your family but the Tullys do not have the weight of history that we Starks do. We must be very careful, the balance of the North is important. Do you think the decision to send me to the Vale was made on a whim?"

Cat bit her tongue at the comment on her family. Her Septa and Maester had always given House Tully equal status as the other Great Houses. It was only when she began learning about the North from Maester Luwin that she realised how distorted her education had been. The Tullys had always been in a precarious position as Lord Paramounts, the Conqueror had only gifted them the title because they were the most powerful House to first rebel against Harren The Black. Her ancestors had never been kings, powerful lords yes, but not kings.

Hearing other histories made it painfully obvious why the Tullys were considered the lowest of the Great Houses. They did not have the wealth of the Lannisters and Tyrells, the prestige of the Starks or Baratheons or the natural isolation of the Martells. The Riverlands was a disjointed realm, the battlefield for nearly all of Westeros' wars. The Tullys had spent 3 centuries maintaining their power but by virtue of sharing a border with 4 other kingdoms, her family had never been truly secure. Cat was old enough to remember her father's fear of House Darrys' prosperity and their favour with the Targaryens. She knew that he'd been relieved when King Robert had stripped the Darrys to the bone.

"Why did you bring him back Ned? Why?" This was the first time in years that Ned seemed willing to explain his choices for Snow. "Could you not have just left him with his mother?"

The Lord of Winterfell wouldn't look at his own wife. He was staring at a tapestry of Torrhen Stark kneeling at the Trident, the North remembered their own defeats as well as their victories.

"His mother is dead."

A shade in Cat's mind disappeared. The shadow of a faceless woman that had plagued her mind in the first years of her marriage had receded as the years went on but never left. There was always that fear that Snow's mother was waiting in some far off place, waiting for Ned to find her again and give Snow a sibling. Only, the knot in Catelyn's heart didn't disappear.

"Does Snow know?"

Ned shook his head.

"Was there no one else?"

"None who would care for him." Ned took another drink. "I was the only kin he had left." he whispered.

Catelyn heard him clear enough. 'Only kin? Was being his father not the proper title?'

When Snow was still an infant, she'd held out some small hope that Ned wasn't his father, that he was the bastard of some loyal Stark man who died for his lord. Maybe one of the men who travelled to Dorne and never returned. Her dreams were for naught, he grew to have a Stark's face, a Stark's hair and a Stark's eyes.

Cat knew that during their first months at Winterfell, many guests assumed she'd had twins; how else could there be a boy that mirrored her husband so easily. Those comments led to long nights in private, trying to figure out if her Robb truly was the eldest Stark, if perhaps his red Tully hair would give his future bannerman enough of an excuse to replace him. Could one mistake be enough to put Snow in his father's place?

Her paranoia wasn't lessened by Ned allowing the bastard a true born's education. She'd managed to put a halt to the personal lessons on Lordship but he continued to follow Robb in matters of Arms. A bastard with a talent for the sword was equally disturbing. Whispers of Blacksnow haunted her at times.

"Why here? Tell me that Ned. Could Lord Reed not have cared for him, kept him safe?" Cat was determined to know why he chose years of silence over explaining.

Her husband had wandered over to the bookcase and pulled out a worn tome, its pages yellow and flipped through to the end.

"This is one of the Stark records, it has the names and relations of every Stark that has lived in Winterfell, the year they were born and the year they died."

He placed the book on the desk, Cat could see her husband's hand in the names of her children. She purposely ignored Snow's name in one of the columns. Ned turned the page back. Rickard, Lyanna and Brandon stood out to her.

"When I left King's Landing. I was desperate to find Lyanna. She'd been missing for nearly a year, with no word or sight of her. When I found her… her body, all I could do was count the Starks in my mind. Me and Benjen. That was it."

There were tears hiding behind his eyes, his mind was far away.

"Then I found Jon. They all say he looks like me, when I look at him I see my father. How could I leave him behind? How could I leave a Stark in the South?"

Cat had never seen Ned like this, he rarely spoke of his siblings or the war, perhaps because it was so easy for him to be lost in them. Her hands were stiff, curled into fist. He was speaking as though Snow was a surprise, did he simply forget he'd lain with a woman?

"I didn't know you were with child. Benjen and I were alone, so was Jon. I claimed him readily, I went South to avenge Starks and I returned with a new one."

Cat was confused. Ned seemed dead set against calling Snow his son. Kin, Stark, Family yes, but never son. Was he on too ashamed? Could he not admit his vaunted honour was stained?

If someone else had been in the room they would have seen Ned lost in his memories but Catelyn had a deep frown while staring at her husband. Suspicions that had fled when Snow said his first words and frowned were creeping back into her thoughts. Snow was a Stark there was no doubt, which Stark had fathered was another matter.

The servants of Winterfell told many stories of Lord Rickard and Brandon. She remembered Brandon as a gallant and passionate man who she'd looked forward to wedding. In the corridors and portways of Riverrun he'd stolen kisses and she'd let him perhaps go further than was proper, but she'd been charmed by the Wild Wolf. It was the servants who told of the many maids who'd also fallen to his charms, they even spoke of Barbary Dusting and the many nights Brandon spent in the Rills. While at Riverrun he'd gone out with her father to visit some bannerman more than once.

"When did you find him Ned?"

"A few weeks before I came to Riverrun."

She knew Ned had visited King's Landing on his journey back North, that meant Snow must have been in either the Crownlands or Riverlands. Before that Ned had lived in the Vale.

"You were grieving, I remember it well. I was a stranger and I will admit that I was unsure how to comfort you in those early months. Even so, why could you not send him, even if he was your son, to a Bannerman? Any of them would have seen it as an honour to raise him. He would have been well taken care of."

Ned had downed another cup of wine. "I had to protect him Cat. I promised, and I keep my promises, even to the dead."

"Who did you promise Ned?" She asked quickly.

That had been too far. Ned shook his head and set down his cup. He stood and looked at her again then leaned against his desk.

"It's getting late Cately. You should see to supper. I have some letters to write."

The dismissal was clear. She stood and made to leave.

"Snow is three and ten Ned. He'll be a man grown soon and what will he do? Will he remain here, a hanger on that will haunt these halls till we pass on?"

Ned didn't respond, he was writing paying her no mind, but she saw his hand still. She left the solar and made for the kitchens. She hoped dinner passed quickly, she a lot to think over.

/

Ned met Maester Luwin the next morning in the elderly man's study. There were maps and records strewn about the small office.

"Good morning Luwin."

"Morning my lord," Luwin handed him a small bundle of letters, he began reading while Luwin finished his breakfast. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Well enough Luwin, my mind has been wandering all day."

"I'm the same way. The Direwolves, the pups, Beorn's existence in of itself has set me off."

"Beorn's existence, Luwin?"

"If he's being truthful, then these 'Shepards' are a group I've never heard or read of. His robes and his talk of Greenseers reminds me of the Green Men of legend that supposedly live on the Isle of Faces."

They made their way to Ned's solar, where he put the finishing touches on some fresh messages.

"I'm more interested in those Histories he mentioned." Ned mentioned. "I have copies of the family records, but most of them are filled with harvest counts, coin tallies and agreements. I was taught my family's past by my father and Old Nan, not from a book."

"Many of the Great Houses have commissioned books recounting their great achievements and heroic ancestors." Luwin added. "I simply assumed the Starks would have thought such a thing a waste of money."

"So would I." Ned agreed. "I want you to search the library, if you need help grab Jon and Robb. I'll search my chambers and solar, perhaps I missed something when I returned after the Rebellion. But first I need these messages sent by raven to Last Hearth, Karhold, and Castle Black."

/

Luwin returned that afternoon with, Robb, Jon, some food and news that the library had been scoured but no sign of these histories was found.

"I did find several cupboards that had been hidden by the shelves, they held some very old insignia and what I believe to be older seals. Strangely enough, they all bear both Common and what I believe is some form of the Old Tongue."

Robb jumped in before Ned could ask anything. "We compared them to the runes down in the crypts, there's a few characters they share but otherwise its indecipherable." Jon nodded along with Robb's explanation. No doubt he was along for the entire adventure.

Luwin placed a small box on the desk containing a pile of iron and bronze disks and a few battered rings. The disks fit smartly in his palm, each one looked older than the last. The bronze ones were so worn that the only design he could make out was the faint outline of the Stark direwolf. On the iron disks the detailing consisted of the Stark Direwolf embossed on one side with a crown on the other. The writings as Luwin described, though faded a bit, was in the Common Tongue on the top and in some strange script along the bottom.

"Why is the Common so strangely worded?" Ned asked. "Blood… o?... Stark be in my bones… Let none doubt my right to… throne?"

"We believe the iron seals are from before the Conquest, my Lord." Luwin answered. "The bronze may date back to the before the Andal Invasion!" He could see Winterfell's Maester was excited just at the thought of touching such an artifact.

"What do the seals look like now Father?" Jon asked.

Ned opened up the large trunk along the wall and pulled out a smaller chest. Taking the large keyring out of his pocket he unlocked it, shifted through the content and finally revealed two steel disks of similar size to the boys' find. He passed the boys one each.

"Those seals are new, from what I understand my brother and father took theirs south. I had these made shortly after you were born."

The seals were elegant in their simplicity. Northern knots adorned the edges, the Stark Direwolf now graced both sides and "Winter Is Coming" was engraved underneath the sigil.

"I went over every corner of my chambers, I also checked the Throne Room for… I'm not even sure, a hidden chamber? We'll go through my solar another day. I need to speak with Beorn."

/


	3. History Is Like Wind, Prone To Change

Ned wouldn't get the chance to speak with his strange guest for two days; a fire in Wintertown took all of his attention. With the immediate danger dealt with, Ned took the opportunity to give Robb the responsibility of overseeing the reconstruction, he also encouraged his heir to come up with a way to recuperate the lost food stuff. Robb was getting to the age where lessons on ruling and management would take precedence over war and arms.

Ned wondered what his education would have been like if not for his fostering. Jon Arryn had ensured that Ned and Robert had a full education, Robert because he was the future Lord of Storm's End, and Ned because of his status as the son of a Great House. Jon had gone above and beyond for him though, ensuring that Ned learned just as much about managing a kingdom as his heir Elbert despite the expectation that Ned would never rule anything larger than a keep and some modest sized land. Neither of them could have imagined those hours spent in Jon's solar while the other boys were out in the yard would be so consequential.

He walked through the courtyard, stopping to watch Jon and Theon as they showed Bran how to hold a bow properly. His eyes caught Arya hiding behind a wagon, flailing a stick in every direction. She had the heart of Lyanna, there was no doubt, but Ned saw flashes of Brandon in her open defiance and temper.

The Godswood was calm as ever, nothing seemed to faze the weirwoods. At the beginning of the Rebellion he'd come to pray after arriving from the Vale. Ned prayed that his father and brother's souls would find peace, prayed he'd find Lyanna, prayed he'd survive the war. Through it all, his only companion had been the wind. A Godswood was silent and in front of the Gods you were alone, any oaths sworn to them were for you alone. When Northerners prayed they knew better than to ask for mercy, the Old Gods would give none. They sought courage, strength and the approval of their ancestors, so that the Old Gods would see fit to allow them victory and good fortune.

Sitting at the base of a bent Ironwood, Beorn had donned a rough wooly shirt, pants and a jacket. His eyes were closed, he seemed to be resting. At his side, the Direwolf pups were feeding from their mother. He couldn't find Maw or Crag anywhere, they must have gone hunting. He'd had word spread that any Direwolves seen in the Wolfswood were to be left alone. Beorn had promised that the wolves would keep to themselves, when Ned had looked into Maw's eyes afterwards he believed him. That wolf confused him, anytime they were close Ned felt unbalanced, his thoughts tended to wander, and his emotions seemed stronger, more present.

"Beorn."

The Shepherd looked up and gave a smile, "My King!… My Lord, I mean. I hope you are well?"

"I'm fine Beorn, yourself?"

Beorn looked down at the little ones, "The pups are in good health, so I am as well. Your hospitality has kept me warm and fed otherwise."

"I'm glad to hear it. We've yet to find the Histories you mentioned, but we'll keep looking. In the meantime, I wished to know more about your oath. You swore to teach my children the 'Old Stories'. There's a woman here, Old Nan, she's always recounted legends and fables, are those the stories you were speaking of?"

Beorn stretched his legs out and the two men began walking through the Godswood. Most visitors underestimated just how larged the Godswood in Winterfell was.

"I've spoken with Old Nan, a kind woman, she knows her tales well. But what I would teach your children isn't fiction of any kind, but the true history of the North. The history that the Shepherds have kept free from time, death and… influence."

"History? Maester Luwin has ensured that my children know the way of the world and its past, as much as he's able to." Ned defended the man who had been a good advisor for many years.

"I have no doubt Luwin has done his best. The Maesters have always been defenders of knowledge. What most forget is that the Maesters also get to choose what is kept and what is forgotten."

"You truly believe that?"

"An age ago the Maesters were nothing more than recluses in the Reach. Under the protection of the Hightowers they kept themselves isolated from war or strife. As long as their Citadel was left alone they didn't care who ruled. When the Andals came, the Reach accepted them with open arms. The Maesters were already filled with men who cared little for First Men customs and religion in general, it was no trouble for them to simply remove anything the Andals felt was 'heretical' from their library. Or more likely take whatever knowledge they thought important and stripped any mention of the First Men from it."

"You feel very strongly about this."

Beorn took a deep breath, "Please, don't misunderstand me. I respect the Maesters for their curiosity, and their endeavors to understand the world; but all too often they will reshape events if they run counter to their views."

"Where are you from Beorn? If you and your family are truly what you say, how could I be ignorant of your existence?"

"Truthfully, the break between us is relatively new. You know of your Great-Great-Grandfather Beron Stark?"

Ned was confused by the diversion, "He became Lord after his elder brother passed without children. Then he was wounded fighting the Ironborn. His wife and sisters, for some reason, quarreled over who should guide his heir, Donnor, until he came of age. Donnor was sickly though and passed not long after."

"What of his children?"

"His other son Willam became Lord of Winterfell, he marched with Lord Umber against the King-Beyond-The-Wall, Redbeard. After dying in battle, his son Edwyle became Lord after." Ned recounted.

"Yes. As you know it was Edwyle's uncle, and Willam's brother Artos that slew Redbeard. Artos was also the only one of Beron's children to worship the Seven. He had an intense hatred for Wildlings."

"Many Northmen do."

"He tried to get Edwyle Stark to convert to the Seven."

Ned spun so fast to face Beorn, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

"What!?"

"He argued that if Edwyle abandoned the Godswoods for the Septs the Starks could gain powerful allies in the South and begin expanding the North's power."

"He'd have been murdered in his bed." Ned said with certainty.

"Thankfully, Edwyle's mother was a Blackwood. It took her a few years but she managed to get Artos married off and out of Winterfell. However before that he convinced Edwyle to banish the Shepherds from his home."

"The Shepherds once lived here?"

"Usually one or two lived in Wintertown, the Starks would send a message to the Great Shepherd informing them of an impending birth. Before the Maesters spread, Shepherds frequently acted as or trained midwives. If the Starks liked the Shepherd sent to them, they would ask them to stay until the child reached adulthood. Often one or two Shepherds would help raise an entire generation of Starks. They weren't as involved as a Maester is, but they still had some influence."

The men reached the far wall, Ned took the chance to inspect it for any damage.

"Except in the turmoil after Beron's death no messages were sent. Willam was more concerned with fighting at the Wall so Edwyle was taught by his Maester exclusively. A Shepherd arrived a few years later, sent to establish ties with Winterfell. Artos hated him, he saw us as Wildlings given leave to wander the land. Edwyle's mother was from the Riverlands, she didn't trust the Shepherds either. Artos pointed to the bronze blades and our use of the Old Tongue to draw similarities between us and the men who'd killed Willam. Edwyle decreed no Wildlings would have a place at his hearth and refused to give the Shepherd guest rights."

"Why didn't you try again after Edwyle passed?"

"Pettiness mostly. The Starks had thrown the Shepherds out, something few Lords have had the gall to do. When news spread that your father had been born and no Shepherd was called, it cemented their resentment."

"What changed?"

They set off back for the entrance.

"My Father was elected the Great Shepherd 3 years ago. He met with several of your bannermen, asking about you."

"My bannermen? The Shepherds are still in contact with other Houses?"

"Don't feel ashamed my lord, we've learnt to hide our presence since the Targaryens arrived. Old tales about us were melded with legends about the Children of the Forest and the Giants. Even Maesters are rarely told about us. Usually, we'll enter a household under the guise of a servant or craftsman."

"And what did my vassals say?"

Beorn met Ned's eyes.

"That you were a good man, an honourable man, devoted to the Gods and Northern to the core despite your time in the Vale. It was enough to convince my father that we should approach you, but first he ordered me to go beyond the Wall and find a Direwolf pack." Beorn looked slightly embarrassed. "My father decided that even if you didn't believe me, the Direwolves might give me time to convince you."

Ned mulled over the tales about his forefathers, if it was true then what else might Beorn know that Ned was ignorant of? If his bannerman were still being taught by the Shepherds, was there things he was ignorant of that his vassals were not? That thought unsettled him. Jon had taught him that a Lord must know his lands like he knows his hands.

"I want to trust you Beorn. You seem like a good soul, but until we find the Histories I can't allow you to teach my children. Not without more proof of your claims."

Beorn hid his disappointment well. Despite his confidence Ned guessed Beorn couldn't be older than five-and-twenty, a young man by all accounts.

"Lord Stark!"

A guard stood in the Godswoods calling out.

"What is it Alyn?"

"Maester Luwin sent for you sir! He's waiting in your solar."

"Seems I might have spoken too soon."

/

"Lady Arya was trying to look on top of the bookcase, she lost her balance and fell into the tapestry. When we made to hang it back up, she noticed a patch of stonework that looked strange."

Ned glanced from Luwin to his daughter. Arya wore a plain grey dress, but he could see the cuffs of her pants tucked into a pair of boots.

"And what were you doing in my solar Arya?"

His daughter, bless her heart, wasn't chastised. She perked up and ran to Ned and threw her arms around him.

"Jon told me you were looking for some hidden treasure in your solar! I asked Maester Luwin if I could help him look. Then I figured you probably weren't tall enough to see way up on the bookcase, so I decided to climb up."

Ned couldn't fault her logic.

"So you decided to scale the bookshelf while Luwin was busy instead of asking for help?"

"I didn't want anyone else to get the credit when I found the dragon egg."

"Dragon egg?"

Arya quickly nodded. "Prince Jacaery's dragon Vermax laid them when he visited!"

Ned laughed, "Arya, we aren't looking for dragon eggs, we're looking for a book."

"A book?" she wrinkled her nose.

Ned walked over to the bare wall, from a distance it resembled the rest of the chamber. The stonework was uniform from the floor to the ceiling. Arya detached herself and pointed to a section of the wall about chest height.

"There! The stones are a different colour!"

She hopped and rapped her knuckles on the same spot, Ned was startled when the stones thudded dully, but with a distinct hollowness. He ran his hands along the wall.

"It's wood!"

"Just as I found Lord Stark." Maester Luwin added, the old man reached forward and twisted one of the "stones" and lifted it out of the wall, revealing a small keyhole.

"I called for you because we've reached a dead end. Do you have any idea what key might open a wall?" Luwin asked.

Thinking hard, Ned walked to his desk and searched through one of the lower drawers. He pulled out a crude iron key-ring. There were several keys of varying size and make on it; some broken or bent while a few looked like they were forged from bronze.

"These are the keys to the crypts." He lifted one of the older ones, this one had its end chipped off and the shaft was bent. "I never found a lock for this one, at first I assumed the door it went with had been replaced."

"Looks useless" Arya observed.

"That's what I always thought. When you were still a babe Arya, I dropped this ring while walking to the crypts." Ned took the broken key between his hands, gripped the bow and pulled. The two halves of the key split. "The back popped out, the rest of the key is hollow." He showed the other two, it was true, the bent and mangled shaft was hollow and the key's bow actually connected to a smaller key that would normally be hidden.

"Fascinating. Why the need for the secrecy?" Luwin wondered.

Arya caught on fast, "Try it Father! Try it!"

Obediently, Ned put the key into the wall. It fit snugly into the lock. Ned turned the key, he heard a click and had to stop the wall from falling out. He came away with a wooden board, the front of which was carved and painted to resemble stone.

Behind it was four shelves, each filled with canvas bags. Maester Luwin jumped forward running his hands careful over the objects. He looked closed at the shelves themselves, gave them a tug and proceeded to pull it out of the wall. It was less of shelf and more of a rack. There were two more rows hidden in the compartment. Ned moved closer to run his hand across the "treasure" he'd found, he noticed the books were surprisingly cold, sticking his arm into the space behind and found it was cool enough to give him goosebumps.

"What are they?" Arya asked.

Luwin turned back and smiled at her, "Books my dear, books."

Arya stared at the hidden compartment and started pouting. "Well that's boring! What a waste!"Arya turned and ran out of the room, "I'm going to find something fun to do!"

The two men, now alone, focused back on their discovery. Luwin placed one of the books on Ned's desk. He carefully undid the thin leather straps and unwrapped the heavy canvas. It revealed a tome bound in cracked brown leather. Luwin peered at the cover, which was unadorned, not even a title. The spine cracked as turned it open, the pages were in good condition and the ink was still relatively clear. The first page contained a rough map of the North, the next was even more intriguing.

"Look my lord," Luwin pointed to the text, "Its written in that strange tongue we found on the seals."

Ned took the book and flipped through a few more pages, he stopped at one. The page wasn't on parchment but felt more like drafting paper. It held a sketch of a man, he had what looked to be a wolf pelt over his shoulders, what looked like rings on his fingers and what was definitely a crown on his head.

"Luwin I can read this." Ned pointed to the runes written in the corner of the portrait.

"It looks to be a Stark King, my lord. What does the inscription say."

"Torrhen Stark."

Luwin was stunned. "Truly? Are these the Histories Beorn spoke of?"

"What else could they be?" Ned continued to scan through the book, "I just wish I could read this. Luwin, I recognize some of these words but the ones I can understand are titles more than anything else." He pointed out a few words. "This one means 'Stark', its carved into a few places here in Winterfell. This one is 'King', the tombs of the oldest Starks all bear it. I think this one might be 'Mormont' but I can't be sure."

Luwin had pulled out the other 4 shelves, the bottom 3 were filled but the top one was only half-full. "There must be at least 20 volumes. It would take a long time to go through them all, even if we did learn the language. I could send some of them to the Citadel, there they might be decoded."

Ned thought of Beorn. "No Luwin, these books are heirlooms of House Stark. They shall not leave Winterfell."

"As you say my Lord." Luwin looked uncomfortable with his order.

"After we sup, we'll talk with Beorn. He knew these records existed, he might know how to read them as well."

/

Dinner in Winterfell hadn't changed with the Beorn's arrival. Ned and his family would eat together in the Great Hall at the Family table. Various servants and guardsman would come and go, eating as their duties allowed. Sometimes Ned would invite the Pooles, Cassels or Mollens to dine with them.

Tonight, Ned had invited Beorn to sit at their table. Cat didn't seem pleased with the arrangement but she kept her peace. The children had been ecstatic, they only got to see Beorn for a few hours when Ned and Cat allowed them to visit the Direwolves and they'd been too preoccupied with the little pups to ask him many questions. Now Beorn sat at Ned's left and beside Robb, while he was assaulted by questions.

"What's it like beyond the Wall?"

"Cold, very cold. It's a harsh land, probably harsher than the North. There's all manner of beasts, plants, ruins and people. I wouldn't recommend it, but there are a dozen or so Shepherds who spend all their lives in the 'True North' as some call it." Beorn told them.

"Why would they want to do that? Aren't they afraid of the Wildlings?" Sansa asked, utterly perplexed why someone would choose to live in such a place.

"Most of the Free Folk respect the Shepherds, we help them where we can, broker peace between the tribes and help them when winter comes. In exchange, we get safe passage through their lands and occasionally they'll send their children to join us. More than one Shepherd has taken a Free Folk for a spouse."

Robb chimed in then, "You're allowed to marry?"

Beorn nodded, "Of course, we're not Septons. Usually a Shepherd will meet someone while out in the lands, marry them and have children. Those of us with magic in our blood are encouraged to do so."

"What's your name then?" Robb asked him.

"You mean my family name? Well Shepherds aren't nobles, we don't track our lineages that closely, but there are some who do. We don't take noble names either, usually we gain or choose a name when we come of age. When I was a boy I was called Beorn Son of Torrhen Wolftongue."

"Wolftongue? Why is he called that?" Jon joined in.

Beorn sent Ned a subtle look, then checked the rest of the hall, seemingly satisfied that it was empty, he quietly continued. "Mainly because he has a talent for warging into wolves, he used to hunt with his own pack. He hunted down a pair of snowbears and presented them as a present to his mother. The other reason was his mother's sigil was a wolf."

The younger children were more amazed by the idea of a single man taking down animals from Old Nan's stories. Jon and Robb were thinking it through, Catelyn's eyes were as wide as dinner plates and Ned had frozen stiff.

"Who was she?" Ned's intense question cut through the quiet.

"Berena Stark" Beron supplied.

"Stark!" Bran cried out.

"Beron's eldest daughter. I thought she died from a fever."

"She nearly did. A travelling Shepherd saved her, they fell in love and with Beron's blessings, left. She left when Donnor and Willam were still toddlers."

"You're a Stark?" Sansa asked.

"Not truly. I may have some Stark blood, but there are many noble families intermingled with the Shepherds. My friend Harad is from a long line of Umbers."

"Father what does this mean?" Robb was hard pressed to understand what this newfound blood tie meant for their family.

Ned took a moment to answer. "Not much Robb. As Beorn said, if he does have Stark blood in him, then we are distant kin. Second cousins, nearly as close as my mother and father were related."

All the Starks were staring at Beorn, scrutinizing his face. Most of them seemed to find something that proved his claim.

"I thought you looked a bit like Father and Jon." Sansa commented.

Ned cleared his throat and stood from his chair.

"We can all think on this later. For now, its late but Beorn and I have some things to discuss."

He kissed his wife and children goodnight and led Beorn to his solar.

/

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, I'm glad people are enjoying the story.


	4. Lessons and Messages

“You found them.” Beorn’s reverent tone was a bit embarrassing for Ned. The Shepherd was looking at the books like they were made of Valyrian steel.

“They were hidden well, I’m not surprised I never stumbled upon them.” 

“I’m very relieved my lord, I was afraid they’d be lost to time.” Beorn ran his fingers along the covers.

Luwin had pulled out 3 different volumes of differing age from the “vault”. Ned had resealed the wall and replaced the tapestry. If the location of the books had been kept secret for so long Ned saw no reason to break from tradition.

“I’m glad to have discovered them, the only problem is we can’t read them.”

Beorn opened the first of the books and quickly turned through it, he was quite gentle with the pages and Ned could see his eyes flying over the lines. 

“An unfortunate side effect of the Shepherds’ absence. The Maesters have either forgotten or lost the means to read the Old Tongue.”

“I recognize some of these words Beorn. A few of the titles, some names. I learnt how to read the runes carved into Winterfell’s walls but they were nothing like this.”  

Luwin was looking over his own book, “There are records of First Man runes in the Citadel. Yet as far as I was aware, the First Men abandoned the Old Tongue after the Andal Invasion.”

“It’s difficult to imagine now,” Beorn moved on to the other volumes. “At the time of the Invasion the two peoples spoke different languages, worshipped different gods, held different values. Despite the Andal victory, the First Men survived everywhere not just here in the North. They kept contact in a way the Andals could never understand. Their records kept safe by virtue of the ancestral tongue the Andals refused to learn.” Beorn kept silent as he read more and more.

“What are all these books for Beorn? History? Why would it need to be hidden?” Ned was frustrated, if a secret like this was lost with his father, what else might be lost? 

He couldn’t hope for one of his vassals to ride in and explain all of this. There were certain boundaries that none but the closest of Houses crossed. Just questioning Ned’s knowledge of Northern customs or Stark tradition unprompted was an insult that he couldn’t ignore. Feuds had been started over less.

“What else am I missing?” Ned said to himself.

Beorn dragged his eyes away from the texts. “My lord, these are the personal records of House Stark. Everything from journals, to important reminders.” Beorn opened a more recent book, its spine was still stiff. “This is Cregan Stark’s account of the Dance of Dragons.” Beorn pointed to the books left on the table, “The red one is linked to the Company of the Rose and the brown one seems to be a list of treaties from before the Conquest.”

Ned sat down, Beorn and Luwin following his example.

“You can read them Beorn.”

The Shepherd nodded.

“Would you teach me?”

Beorn smiled, “Lord Stark I would be glad to. It will take some time for you to become fluent. Perhaps, in the meantime, I could start the first lessons with your children?” He noticed Ned’s last shred of hesitation, “You and Lady Catelyn can be present of course.”

“Very well. I’ll speak to my wife. The children will be excited at least.”

////////////////////

_ To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, from his loyal bannerman Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold, with the blessings of the Old Gods. _

_ I hope this message finds you and your family in good health. As always Karhold stands ready at your command. It is sometimes strange to think that no less than nine years ago we marched under the Direwolf to put the Ironborn down. I remember the siege of Pyke well, and the Greyjoy guards my men and I killed. Lord Balon surely rues the day he set his reavers upon our lands.  _

_ Your letter was a welcome surprise, it arrived just a week after celebrating the fourteenth name day of my son Eddard. The message was certainly intriguing, I would be honoured to attend your daughter’s celebration. My own girl Alys is only a year younger, perhaps they will kindle a friendship.  _

_ As to your other inquiries. The lambs of Karhold are yet still young and not great in number but we ensure they have a proper caretaker nonetheless. Many assumed  that Winterfell’s lack of herd was due to your own views on animal husbandry. It is a relief to hear otherwise and I look forward to discussing it further.  _

_ I hope our next meeting will reaffirm the ties of our Houses. The Starks shall look for Winter, and when it comes the Karstarks shall give their liege the Sun. _

_ Loyal and ever vigilant, Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold. _

_ ///////////// _

_ To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, from Lord Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, with the blessings of the Old Gods. _

_ I pray you and your family are hale as horses. The Last Hearth still stands, and no wildling raid nor storm shall bring it down. I hope your skills with a sword haven’t diminished, I’ve kept myself in shape these past few years, out of necessity more than want.  _

_ At some point I started going grey my lord! I tell my children the story of our ride south during the Rebellion and they find it hard to believe that their old father once rode beside Lord Stark and King Baratheon!  _

_ I was glad to read your letter. The Umbers haven’t visited Winterfell since the birth of your son Rickon. My own heir has stretched like a weed, or perhaps more like a giant! I’d be happy to see your Robb and my Jon meet in the yard. My daughters are still too young to travel, they’ll remain with my brothers while we visit. _

_ Shepherds are a strange breed of men, sometimes the sheep they care for are good for nothing but meat. Nevertheless, they teach lessons all true Northmen need to learn. _

_ I look forward to celebrating Lady Sansa’s nameday, and perhaps sharing a drink with you? Maybe this time you’ll last the night! _

_ I toast to our next meeting. Mayhaps a Shepherd of Last Hearth shall accompany me, he seemed just as surprised as I was that one of his fellows has taken up in Winterfell.  _

_ Steadfast and courageous, Lord Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth. _

////////////

_ To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, from Benjen Stark First Ranger of the Night’s Watch. _

_ Ned, it’s good to hear from you. I’m sure the children aren’t as bad as you say. Perhaps Arya will yet give you grey hairs, but such is the privilege of fatherhood. The Wall is as cold as ever but duty keeps me warm.  _

_ The Lord Commander couldn’t accept my request for leave fast enough. I have some news that desperately needs to be shared about the Watch.  _

_ What’s this about a shepherd? I can’t remember Winterfell ever having goats. You’ll have to make sense in person, I’ll be arriving a week or so in advance, if everything goes smoothly.  _

_ Give my love to Cat and the children. _

_ First Ranger, Benjen Stark.  _

Sansa’s eleventh nameday was months away but Ned had decided to use it as an excuse to speak with some his vassals and have his brother visit his home. Until he was able to read the Stark Histories, having a second opinion on the Shepherds would be invaluable.

It had taken Ned a few days to convince Cat to attend Beorn’s lessons with him, in the end her desire to ensure the children’s safety overcame her own suspicions. Coming to terms with the fact that Beorn was his cousin didn’t put her at ease. Aside from preparing for the celebration, Ned attended his children’s first lecture.

///////////

“Ghost, settle down.” Jon pleaded.

He was sitting in the Godswood with his siblings. The pups were tussling in the dirt under the watchful eyes of Maw. Sitting at the massive wolf’s side was his own father, keeping an eye on Arya and Bran as they fought with sticks. Lady Stark was keeping Rickon occupied with colourful leaves, while Robb had Sansa laughing at some jape. 

“Everyone’s here?” 

Jon looked at Beorn, the man had been preparing something when they arrived. He seemed ready to finally begin. Jon was curious but no less excited than his younger siblings. Although he doubted the Shepherd would be teaching them magic as Arya was convinced. 

“Then gather round, you can keep your pups with you.”

The Bastard of Winterfell had mixed feelings about Beorn’s blood relation. Jon wasn’t sure where Beorn fell with regards to social status. His position as a Shepherd probably excluded him from normal conventions, akin to Maester Luwin. Beorn was true born though, and his paternal Grandmother was a mainline Stark. 

Jon understood the current gap in close cousins was because the late Lord Rickard was an only child, and both Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna passed without issue. Maester Luwin had explained that once the Stark children began marrying, their ties to the rest of the North would be cemented for another generation. The Maester had even hinted that Jon could likely find himself marrying to create such a bond. 

“Are you ready for your first lesson?” Beorn asked.

“What kind of magic can you use?” Arya was impatient as usual. 

Beorn took her question in stride, “Unfortunately I can’t teach you any magic… yet.” The Shepherd had little idea he’d just ensured Arya would never stop asking for magic lessons until he gave in.

“Under normal circumstance you would have all started these lessons when your were Bran’s age but I don’t think anyone will mind the change of pace. The first lesson everyone learns is history, without our history we are nothing.” Beorn was confidant, he settled into his seat in front of the Heart Tree.

“The first Shepherds were nothing more than curious travellers.” He began. “Northerners who made their way south, drawn to the God’s Eye deep in the Riverlands. When they returned to their homes they were different; they were wiser, they had a connection to the Godswoods and were touched by the Gods.” Arya and Bran had stopped squirming, becoming entranced by the tale. “As they began to guide and teach the smallfolk, they came to the attention of the Magnars of the North. Choosing to take on the responsibility of guides and teachers, they traveled to Skagos and made it their home.”

Father frowned, “The Skagosi allowed this?”

“The people of Skagos are unrelenting. They live harsh lives, isolated from the rest of the world. Skagos is an interesting place, an old place. The Shepherds went there not just because the Skagosi are fanatically devout but because it gave us a place to be seperate, to live undisturbed.”

Beorn took up a piece of dead weirwood and began whittling.

“After meeting on Skagos, the Shepherds began traveling. They went to every prominent Keep from Widow’s Watch to Bear Island. Any Lord that would welcome them were given gifts and their Godswood was tended to.

“Is that why Winterfell’s is so big?” Robb asked.

Beorn smiled. “Yes, the Starks were just one of many Kings back then. They accepted the Shepherds with open arms and aided them any way they could. In exchange, we gave the Starks many weirwood seeds and more.”

“Like direwolves?” Bran was bursting with excitement.

“On the rare occasion that a Stark was born a warg, if they wouldn’t or couldn’t join us on Skagos, then a direwolf was offered to them. A symbol of fealty.” Beorn explained. “The practice died out after one such direwolf attacked the husband of a Stark daughter. The wolf was put to death and King Brandon The Farmer decreed them too dangerous and had them hunted to the last, despite our protests.”

Sansa clutched Lady to her chest, horrified at the notion of her companion being hurt.

“Our agreement with the people of the North is simple. The Shepherds will tend to the Godswoods, and keep the knowledge of the First Men alive. In exchange, the North shall send any Dreamers or Wargs to us. We continued like this for centuries. Then…” Beorn looked at the Starks, waiting for an answer.

“The Andals came.” Jon guessed.

“And with them, the decline of our people. The First Men were assimilated or eradicated everywhere south of the Neck. They attempted to conquer the North in the same way but we held strong. Despite the victories at Moat Cailin, the Weirwoods were still cut down in the south. We could no longer visit the Isle of Faces except in secret. The Maesters began spreading out from the Reach, and we couldn’t trust them to keep our existence a secret from the Faith of the Seven.” 

Beorn’s branch had started taking shape.

“We lived like this until the fateful day of Aegon’s Landing. The Valyrians were nothing but stories to us. Their dragons another strange creature like the Giants and Snow Bears. No one in Westeros was truly prepared for the beasts. The Field of Fire was bloodier than any battle since the War for the Dawn.”

He finished with the base, and focused on more detailed work of the wood’s tip.

“Before he marched from Moat Cailin, King Torrhen summoned the Great Shepherd to him. Whatever they spoke of is lost to history, all I know is that when the Northern army reached the Riverlands King Torrhen bent the knee. In doing so he saved the lives of his soldiers, his family’s rule and the last bastion of First Men left in Westeros. There’s no doubt that if the Starks were deposed like the Gardener Kings, the Faith of the Seven would have done all it could to wipe the Old Gods from the land, including the Shepherds.”

“He was the King-Who-Knelt.” Sansa added.

“We Shepherds have another name for Torrhen Stark.” Beorn blew off the last of the shavings and set it his piece on the ground. He’d carved the branch into a rough pillar. The top was a wolf’s head, jaw open, with a crown of swords. “ _ Ien Fer Wintre,  _ Winter’s Father.”

///////////////


	5. Born in a Book

“You’re doing well. Now cut a ring just above the leg joint. Not too deeply just enough to get through the skin.” Beorn looked up from Arya as she kneeled with her rabbit. Bran looked determined but he was having trouble pulling the hide away cleanly.

“Robb!” he called out, “Could you help Arya?”

Robb left the fire he was sharing with Jon and knelt down to next to Arya. Beorn smiled at Bran when the boy looked up.

“I’m really trying.” 

“I know you are. Let’s just take it slow. You’ve seen your brothers do this before?”

“Yes. When they’ve come back from hunts with Theon.”

“Don’t rush, you’ll get better as time goes. How about I help you skin it and then Jon can show you the best way to cook it?”

They were in the deeper part of the Godswood with some rabbits Beorn had hunted earlier that day. It had been a few weeks since their first lesson, but Lord Eddard’s children had been good students. Not perfect, they all had their own flaws. 

Rickon was too young to do anything other than play so he mostly stayed with Lady Stark. 

Bran couldn’t seem to sit through a lesson if it wasn’t about some war or battle.

Arya was too quick to dismiss anything she saw as “soft” which included learning the Old Tongue. 

Sansa was squeamish but also stubborn to a fault, she had difficulty understanding some of the North’s darker past. 

Jon lacked confidence in himself along with a strange obsession with the Night’s Watch. 

Robb had a streak of short sightedness that wasn’t a boon for the heir of a Great House, not to mention he outright disapproved of his ancestors’ actions if they deviated from his own moral code. 

Six rabbits were glistening over the small fire they’d built. Arya and Bran had begged to be allowed on a hunt, Lord Stark had rightly refused but eventually conceded to a night camping in the Godswood. Beorn offered to watch over them and turned it into a lesson. 

“Keep an eye on it, don’t forget to turn it so all the sides get good and crispy.” 

Rickon was too young to spend the night outside. Lord Stark had asked Sansa but she refused, couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to sleep outside. When dealing with Sansa, Beorn thought back to his aunt’s lessons. She told him to keep in mind that children aren’t miracles, they’re still growing; even if they seem to be doing things backwards, always making the wrong choices, or doing the opposite of what you tell them, you have to stick it out. No matter what his frustrations were, Sansa was just eleven, plenty of time to grow.

“How about a story?” 

Arya and Bran jumped at his offer. 

“Do you know any stories about knights?”

“A compromise, a story about a man who embodied knightly vows though he never held the title,” Beorn stoked the fire. “ _ Ber Led Veyg Bisl, Branin Wyr-Stark _ .” 

He pointed at Robb, the teen struggled a bit while translating.

“Hear my good story? Of Brandon Half-Stark? Who’s Brandon Half-Stark?”

“Very well done Robb. Old Tongue is somewhat awkward when translated directly. As you get more comfortable with it, switching will get easier. Brandon Half-Stark is known to you as Brandon Snow, the half-brother of King Torrhen.”

That caught Jon’s attention.

“King Torrhen had no trueborn siblings, his father had died young and before his marriage he’d sired Brandon on the youngest daughter of House Cassel. Brandon was a fierce man and loyal, he was a great help to his brother, especially in the early years of his reign. Most famously, on the night proceeding Torrhen’s surrender, Brandon offered to sneak into Aegon’s camp to try and kill his dragons.”

“Kill them with what? Was he mad?” 

“He was desperate Robb. If Aegon rejected Torrhen’s offer of fealty then the Northern army would’ve been massacred. Even without dragons, the Targaryen army outnumbered them. Brandon said he’d made a set of weirwood arrows and would slay the dragons as they slept. Whether it was possible or not, Brandon was willing to take the risk. He was a Prince in all but name.”

Jon may have found a new personal hero, judging by the glint in his eye.

“After Torrhen made his decision, there were many who disagreed with him. These subjects thought they should have fought, and if they were defeated retreat back and let Aegon smash his army against the twenty towers of the Moat.”

“Had they not heard about Harrenhal?” Arya asked.

“News travelled slowly in those days, there was little contact between the Houses of different kingdoms. Rumors that Aegon had razed Harren’s fortress would easily have been chalked up to exaggeration.”

“Were these the people who left to form the Company of the Rose?” 

Beorn nodded. “A host of second sons and daughters, sworn swords and smallfolk, left White Harbour by ship bound for Essos within a year of the surrender. They were led by Brandon Snow.”

“He betrayed his brother?” Jon sounded disappointed. 

“On the surface, it looks like it. I don’t think he did though, in fact, I don’t think the Company of the Rose were exiles at all. I’ve never heard any Shepherds disparage them.” Beorn leaned in, wiping the gristle left by the rabbit meat on his chin. “A few years ago, my father introduced me to a Shepherd who lived in Braavos, I overheard them talking about the latest contract the Company had taken.”

“So?”

Beorn reached over to stop Bran’s rabbit from slipping off his spit.

“So, if the Shepherds have been keeping in contact with the Company then King Torrhen must have approved. If he approved, maybe the Company was ordered to leave.”

“You think King Torrhen ordered Brandon Snow to lead the Company. For what purpose?” Robb could think with a Lord’s mind when he was so inclined.

“To keep them loyal? I can’t even begin to guess. The Great Shepherd knows, I’m willing to bet that every Lord Stark is supposed to know as well. Hopefully,” Beorn stood and began setting up the tents while there was still light. “your father will find out in those books.”

////////////////////////

Dropping another log into the fire, Ned warmed his hands. The evening was late but he wanted to get through another few pages before turning in for the night. Reclining into his chair, he resumed reading.

_ 9 moons have passed now in the year 59 A.C, and the snows have only gotten deeper.  _

_ I doubt we shall the end of Winter this year. I thank the Old Gods that the Shepherds gave me fair warning. The last summer and spring lasted less than a year each.  _

_ Despite my order to store half of the last harvest, I’ve received news that the Karstarks ignored my command. From what Markan has found out, nearly half  of Karhold is starving. Damn that Geran, his children will pay for his hubris. _

_ More pressing than our stores is the tales of sickness in Wintertown. Maester Varrick believes it may be the Shivers, and if so, he has advised I seal the gates. I am loathe to do so, and have ordered my son Jon to craft a way to pass along foodstuff even if the gates are barred.  _

_ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ _

_ The year has turned, but 60 A.C promises no reprieve from the cold.  _

_ The Shivers has engulfed much of the land. A letter from King’s Landing tells of many deaths in the Crownlands. I’ve sent ravens to inform the other Lords to be cautious of any travelers, rare as they may be in this weather.  _

_ I barred the gates after the first deaths in Wintertown, it seems I was not quick enough. Lord Cerwyn’s heir, Torghen, passed away a week ago. It was not a pretty sight, or a comfortable end. As is custom, his body was burned while the snow fell, his ashes mixed in water and poured in the Godswood. _

_ Yesterday, Lord Cerwyn introduced me to young Ramsay, the boy was Born this Winter and is already a fair hand with an axe. For the foreseeable future Ramsay Cerwyn shall attend lessons with my own children to ensure his education.  _

_ Cerwyn’s wife is from the Riverlands, it took quite a while to convince her of the need for Ramsay’s birth. She seems a good sort though and accepted it. How she’ll feel when summer comes is another matter. _

_ “When Ice falls, a snow may be needed” as my grandfather taught me. _

_ Written by the hand of Alaric Stark, Lord of Winterfell. _

_ ~~~~~~~~~~~ _

Ned noted down the page number he’d finished on and closed the book. He’d spent time every night since the discovery of the Histories learning from Beorn. He was making progress but not fast enough for his liking. To this end, he’d asked Beorn to write out common words and House names in Old Tongue. Using that as a reference to compliment his own growing skill, Ned began sifting through the various books. 

He’d begun with the journals and memoirs, they were simpler and used less “official” writing. Beorn had pointed him to  _ Gendig Fer Wintre _ , Memories of Winter; a journal used by the Starks to mark important events during the aforementioned season. The oldest parts of the book had begun to fade, Ned decided that he’d get some of children to make a new copy once they became comfortable with Old Tongue. 

These entries often revealed more questions than answers. For example the last entry he’d read. Alaric Stark’s private recollections matched, for the most part, with what Ned had learnt at Old Nan’s knee. After reading it, he’d gone and sought out the elderly nursemaid and asked her about the last few generations of Cerwyn. According to her, Ramsay Cerwyn was the second son of Leor Cerwyn, he was born in the autumn of 58 A.C. When his older brother Torghen died of the Shivers in Winterfell, Ramsay became the new heir.

It makes no sense then how a boy of three years could already be a “fair hand with an axe” let alone any weapon. Why lie about his age? If he was trueborn why had Alaric not met him before the passing of his brother? Why would Lady Cerwyn need to be convinced at all?

“Born in Winter”, Ned got the impression it wasn’t a literal birth. It was written like Ramsay had passed some rite of passage. An explanation might still be found, Ned was only certain it wouldn’t be found quickly. 

_ ///////// _

Jon was looking at the stars. He could hear the soft breaths of his brothers and sisters. Moonlight filled the clearing, the fire finally petered out. He could still smell the ash and rabbit meat. 

The snap of a twig caught his ear. He drew his eyes from the sky and looked into the trees. Getting up, he wandered over, another snap came out of the bush. Jon hunched down and dug into the dirt, ready to jump at a moment’s notice.

Nothing exciting or dangerous emerged, instead his sister quietly padded out. Jon let her brush past, giving her side a nudge before turning back himself. He circled his spot outside the tent for a few moments, then settled down and closed his eyes.

/////////// 


	6. A Dishonourable Man

Dawn was one of Ned’s favourite times. When he was living in the Vale, he would get up before even the servants and carefully climb the tallest towers of the castle with some bread and honey. He’d sit by one of the windows and enjoy his meal while watching the sun climb over the horizon and bathe the valley in colour. The habit had stuck and when his children were still babes he would wake and take them up Winterfell’s towers to admire the sunshine reflecting on the ice. Rickon was now too old to accompany him, so he was back to being the sole viewer. Except for this morning.

From his seat he heard footsteps climbing the tower stairs, he was certainly surprised when Sansa drowsily opened the door and came in. She was shivering despite the fur wrapped around her. He picked her up and she burrowed into his chest.

“Why are you up so early Sansa?”

“I couldn’t get back to sleep.” She mumbled.

“Bad dreams?”

“Good dreams!” the young girl insisted. “I was getting married, and I had a dress made of jewels!”

“Oh, I’m sure you were the vision of beauty, and who was the man I was giving my daughter to?”

“I woke up before that part, but, but I know exactly what he looks like!” she gushed, “He would be handsome, charming and have flowing hair!”

Ned listened as his daughter listed off the appearance of her dream husband. It surprisingly reminded him of listening to Brandon when they were young. His brother had always been a bit too obsessed with girls and had already crafted the most beautiful, elegant and… passionate woman in his head. He used to say that he knew that woman was out there, it would just take a few tries to find her. If Ned had been older he would have boxed his brother’s ears for talking like that.

“Father, when are we going to go look for a marriage?” Sansa asked.

“You’re a bit young to already be asking about suitors.”

“Septa Mordane says that a long betrothal means a fruitful marriage. Especially, if I’ll have to go South afterwards.”

“South? Why would you be going south?”

Her stare would have been insulting if she was older, “Because that’s where my husband is going to be.”

“Sansa you’re a daughter of House Stark, you’ll be marrying here in the North.” He explained.

His redheaded daughter began tearing up, “No that’s not true! I’m going to marry a knight or a prince, not some Northman.”

Ned tried to calm her, but he said exactly the wrong thing. “There’s nothing wrong with it Sansa, you’ll marry a son of our bannermen, become the next Lady of their House.”

Sansa was upset, she talked about her dreams of knights and golden halls, of grand tournaments held in her honour. Septa Mordane it seemed had told the girl stories of the gallant and virtuous men she would one day meet, how they would sweep her off her feet with vows and flowers. Ned wasn’t upset with her, Sansa was only 11, she hadn’t even become a woman yet. What did frustrate him was that he didn’t know if Septa Mordane could be trusted to prepare his daughters for the real world.

Stories and legends were one thing. When he was her age, he’d been just as guilty of sitting at Old Nan’s feet imagining himself marching off with Cregan Stark to bring order to the South. The difference was he, and his brothers and sisters, had been conscious of the divide between fantasy and reality. Talking with Beorn had brought Ned out of his own bubble, where his children would never grow up and be seperated.

“Sansa, sweetling.” Ned wiped her tears away. “It's not about where you are Sansa, how big your castle is, or how full your coffers are. You should thank the Gods if you have a husband that loves you, healthy children, and food on your table. Fear not, your mother and I will settle for nothing more than a man of great character for you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I swear it on my honour as a Stark.” Cradling her closer, relieved to see the sadness fading from her face, Ned whispered. “You know, love can be found in the unlikeliest of places. Have I ever told you about the moment I realized I loved your mother?”

“No.” He had her full attention now.

“It all started when we returned to Winterfell after the Rebellion…”

As Ned spung the tale about his early marriage, he began to think on the future his daughter was already planning for herself.

/////////////////////////

That morning after breaking his fast he’d ridden to Wintertown with a handful of men. Normally Robb would accompany him but Beorn was going over more history that day and none of his children were eager to miss their lessons.

Taking in the town, speaking with his people, was relaxing. The work cleared his mind, allowed him to actually think rather than trap himself in a loop of worries. Sansa was too young to be considered marriable, but betrothals for girls her age were not uncommon. Marriage was a much more relevant topic for Robb and Jon. They’d be grown men soon. Grown men, and how well did they know the North? Ned hadn’t been in the habit of travelling widely with his family, the relatively quick time between pregnancies offered little room to travel with the children being so young. Mayhaps they’d been too isolated. Greatjon and Rickard would be arriving in a few moons, it would be a good opportunity to discuss fostering. If that went well, Ned considered sending a message to Howland and perhaps Maege. The North had united behind him in the wake of the Rebellion, that kind of loyalty didn’t disappear overnight.

Nevertheless, his thoughts drifted back to the writings of his ancestors. He’d made headway in their journals, even began writing one himself. They’d brought out an ugly side of the Starks he’d had trouble processing. There was no denying that more than a few Starks had been dishonest, idiotic, some even outright cruel. It was cathartic, even if disappointing, to learn about his vaunted forefathers breaking oaths, stealing and lying. Sometimes for the benefit of the House, sometimes not. It lessened the burden of carrying the Stark name, the Stark honour.

In those pages he’d also picked up lessons that he’d missed out on while in the Vale. Every realm was unique, as Jon Arryn taught him, they had their own pasts that shaped how they worked. For instance, Ned knew it was important that the Redforts and the Arryns of Gulltown interact as little as possible because during the War of the Ninepenny Kings two sons of their Houses killed each other in a brawl while on campaign. Jon had managed to stop a war between his vassals but it was a delicate balance that he’d still been managing up until the Rebellion began.

Similarly, from the archives Ned finally learnt why the Umbers were so competitive with the Karstarks. Centuries ago, before Aegon’s Landing, a would be Wildling King snuck across the Wall with hundreds of warriors and began pillaging. The Lords of both Houses were courting a Stark daughter at the same time, so her father King Morrin Stark judged that the man who put down the raiders would earn her hand. After four months of hunting, both Lords tracked down the Wildling King and attacked his camp simultaneously. They found their target dead from a stray arrow and quarreled over who would take the credit. Despite the Karstark’s insistence the Umber temper won out and a single punch meant victory for the giant man.

Ned wondered if that history was the inspiration for the strange children’s song called _The Giant’s Hand_ , which is about a Giant Chieftain who snuffs out the sun with his palm then gives it to a Queen as a gift to entice her into marriage.

Information like that was invaluable. Knowing of the history meant that if Ned could get GreatJon to foster one of his children in Winterfell, he could subtly push Rickard to do the same. It was a bit underhanded as he’d be doing it when Sansa was the centre of attention, but whatever conclusions the two men came to was none of his business.  

He’d always found politics confusing and complicated. Motivations made little sense and it appeared greed and pride carried more weight than sense and duty. His frustrations were not shared by his ancestors. Cregan Stark for one had been a devilish negotiator. Most of his exploits were written down by his children; the deals made to keep the mountain clans in check and the threats used to warn the Boltons off their ambition were tactics Ned had never considered using. Slowly but surely, he was learning how the Starks of old had maintained their rule for thousands of year, a combination of strength, loyalty and ferociousness.

He’d yet to consult with Beorn on the oldest of the texts but he wondered if they would find the writings of the most brutal of the old Kings. Would the Hungry Wolf’s savaging of Andalos make more sense in his own words? Did the Laughing Wolf revel in the death of the Marsh King? In truth, did Ned himself regret the slaughter at the Battle of the Bells? Where, in his desperation to save Robert, he accepted no quarter and his honour mixed with the blood of the enemy.

Honour. If he had any true honour he’d have told his wife of Jon’s true parentage the moment she set eyes on the babe. If he had honour he’d have brought back Willam Dustin’s body, or better yet not gotten him and the others killed in the first place. If he had honour he wouldn’t have lied to Robert and Jon Arryn. No, Ned resolved he was nothing more than a dishonourable man trying to repent for his mistakes.

His own thoughts crept up to disagree, ‘Torrhen Stark thought the same after his crown was taken and yet he is seen as a saviour by many. You’d never be able to bear facing Lyanna again if you’d handed Jon over. What good is honour when it dictates you betray those you love?’

“It is late, let us return to Winterfell.” Ned commanded as he pushed those thoughts down.

Their party came into the courtyard an hour before supper. Ned unsaddled his horse and watched the boys finish up their practice in the yard. Jon had a natural talent, but Robb and Theon had the advantage in size and strength. The Bastard of Winterfell, and how he hated that name, had a grey gambeson on and in the shade of the castle walls it looked almost black.

Where would Jon go? Ned had become an expert at avoiding that question. In two short years he would be left behind when Robb took up more duties. He and Theon never got on well, with Robb out of the picture it was doubtful they’d spend any time together. Jon would probably shift his focus onto Arya, Bran and Rickon but spending time with children was no way for him to  his life. Jon was good with a sword, could read and write and was unintentionally charismatic. There were plenty of paths open to the boy, a small holdfast somewhere, staying on as an advisor to Robb, training to become a cavalryman, he could even visit the Free Cities as an envoy if he wished to travel. Still, Ned thought the risk of having Jon out of his sight was too great. If he left Winterfell he might meet someone who could recognise some hidden Valyrian features that Ned was blind to. How hard would it be to meet a stranger that had never seen or heard of Ned Stark but was familiar with the Targaryens? The Stark looks had been a boon in the North but without the surrounding family Jon really was striking and stood out even in Winterfell.

Not for the first time he considered Jon’s habit of asking questions about the Wall. Ned held no illusions, the Night’s Watch was an honourable institution that had been reduced to a dumping ground for Westeros’ criminals. There were still a few noble souls serving, Benjen had recently become First Ranger and Jeor Mormont was Northern to the core. As long as Jon kept his head about him, it wasn’t difficult to picture him becoming a Ranger even Lord Commander in time. Even so, the notion of sending Lyanna’s son to the Wall didn’t sit well. He was still young and there was more to life than being a black-clad sentry.

Retreating back into the keep, Ned stoked rested in his solar. He closed the last book he’d been reading, a collection of treaties and oaths from just after the conquest penned by Torrhen’s sons. He’d found a number of agreements for mutual trade ventures. It looked like just after the Conquest, the North was worried about how heavily it would be taxed by King Aegon. They’d commissioned a number of merchants to travel east and south to get a better feel for the new markets they’d be joining. To his surprise, he’d also found a plan to repair and expand the Kingsroad drafted by Barthogan Stark before his death at the hands of the Skagosi. There were plenty of ideas written down, but very few executed whether due to lack of resources or by war breaking out.

Ned began to consider his own plans. Inspired he’d begun to list out the main projects he’d like to see started or completed in his lifetime. They weren’t overly ambitious or grandiose, but they would lay the foundations for greater things in the future. He took up a quill and added Barthogan’s plan to the top. It now read:

 

  * _Repair the Kingsroad and expand it._


  * _Repopulate the Gift and New Gift_


  * _Improve Farming_


  * _Take a Count_


  * _Hold a Council of Lords_


  * _Send a new trade mission east_



 

It was admittedly a short list and not all that in depth but Ned was just getting started. He’d asked Luwin to send for any texts the Citadel had on growing food in colder weather or any records of goods available in the farther reaches of Essos. Until he had more information, his hands were tied. Listening to Beorn’s stories had lit a fire in him. Lately he dreamt of himself wearing a crown of bronze and iron marching from Winterfell and uniting the North, turning it into something great; very out of character for him, he had no great desire to rule but he did desire a better life for his family and his subjects.

Ned knew that he needed capital to support any large spending, the Starks were wealthy but large scale projects like these required more backing than one House could provide. Unless their name was Lannister. He was considering writing to Jon Arryn and inquiring about gaining support from the Crown or perhaps reaching out to his good-father Hoster but it could wait until after Sansa’s celebration. He’d straighten out matters with his children first.

Putting away his papers for the night, Ned left his solar and nearly ran into Arya.

“Father! Come on, come on.”

She started dragging him by the hand down the corridor.

“Arya, wait a moment.”

“There’s no time! Beorn’s going to teach us how to make an _Amol_.”

“What’s an _Amol?_ ”

“I don’t know but I’m pretty sure its magic.”

As it turned out _Amols_ were small good luck charms made from bronze and wood. They were given as a gift and usually had a rune carved into them to symbolize its purpose. Beorn pulled a small bundle of them out of his bag. They were each a flat piece of white wood the length of a finger, on each end with a small piece of bronze and carved into the face was a rune. Ned noticed the rune’s were filled with a hard red liquid. He also recognised the small trinket as similar to one stored in his chambers.

“I have one.” Ned said.

“Really?” Bran asked.

“Yes, Howland Reed gave me one before the Battle at the Trident. I thought it was a crannogman tradition. I never saw anyone else with one.”

“ _Amol_ ’s are considered a private gift, they are not often shared with others.” Beorn explained. “If they’re carried into battle, most warriors keep them tucked inside their armour somewhere and it is customary to burn or bury them with their owners.”

“What are they made for?” Robb questioned.

“Lots of reasons. They can be given as an act of friendship, a sign of loyalty, an expression of love. Parents and children often make them for each other if they’re to be seperated for a long period of time.” Beorn shook the bundle and the wood pleasantly clacked together. The eight or so _Amols_ were linked by a leather band. “These were given to me by my family, some of my friends and one of my teachers. They all bear different runes and to convey different sentiments.”

“Are they magic or not?” Arya pressed.

Beorn smirked, in a way that reminded Ned very much of Benjen, “A certain kind of magic, to be sure.”

As the children worked through making their own practice _Amol_ , only Robb and Jon actually whittled a piece of wood the others used pieces of coal to sketch out their designs, Ned felt Maw settle down at his side. He carefully threaded his hand into the wolf’s fur.

Less than two months since their arrival and the direwolves had seamlessly blended into their lives. The pups woke up with the children, nipped at their heels until the mid-morning before going with Beorn while the children went off to their lesson and duties. He’d been spending more time with the Maw. While he was certainly too large to come up into the Family Wing, Maw accompanied Ned on his morning walks to the Godswood. Crag spent his time either in the Godswood or watching the boys in the yard, he’d recently taken a shine to Theon which Ned was glad to see. Green Eyes followed her pups unless she took a break to go hunting, otherwise she watched over both sets of children at Catelyn’s side. Cat said she managed to get Bran to stop climbing a part of the outer wall the day after a downpour, growled him down from the battlement and back into the Keep!

Beorn himself hadn’t had as easy of a time. Though Bran and Arya were quick to latch onto the man, the rest of Winterfell still kept him at arm’s length. The Shepherd shrugged off their suspicions, he guessed that the lack of a Shepherd had affected everyone born and bred near Winterfell. The Pooles and Cassels certainly had no memory of them. Ned’s early doubts were proven wrong when Beorn accompanied him into Wintertown. Covered in his green cloak with his necklace and mask on full display they’d both been surprised by the dozen or so families that had approached them.

They’d bowed and shown him proper courtesy but it was Beorn they focused on. Tovan, the elderly tanner that had been in Wintertown as long as Ned could remember, stepped out from the crowd.

He went right up to Beorn and asked, “Are you a Shepherd?”

“I am.” Beorn’s voice was calm and level.

The crowd erupted with excitement. A woman, Tovan’s wife, came forward with a gaggle of children in her skirts. She looked hopeful.

To Ned’s shock she burst into a quick gaggle of Old Tongue! He was only able to follow every couple of words, thankfully Beorn’s responses were more interberable.

“I brought new direwolves to the Starks.”

“----guest?-----Starks-----made amends?”

“Lord Stark has acted with honour, he is a credit to his name. The Starks will remember the old ways soon enough.”

His assurance seemed to relieve the woman. She urged her grandchildren forward to Beorn who kneeled. He took out a small wooden bowl with a lid wrapped in twine. He pulled the top off and reached into the small bowl. His fingers scraped the weirwood sap, closer to a paste than hard syrup, off the side. Beorn smudged some of the paste onto each child’s palm while muttering prayers.

When Ned asked Tovan how his wife knew about the Shepherds he learnt she came from Sea Dragon Point. Tovan had met her while visiting a friend at Deepwood Motte. When they returned to marry she’d asked after the Shepherds but had been unsatisfied when he replied that he owned no sheep. It was obvious that the smallfolk either felt they had no authority to question the Stark’s ignorance of the matter or they thought the Starks deliberately kept the Shepherds away from their lands.

Tovan spoke about the rumors of Direwolves living in Winterfell were already spreading. Most traders passing through Wintertown had been asking about them no doubt taking the tale even farther afield.

“Most of us believe its a sign my lord.”

“A sign of what?”

“That the Old Gods still stand with the Starks.”

Beorn was highly sought by the townspeople after that. His weekly routine now included a visit to Wintertown and its Godswood. In response, Winterfell began opening up to the man. He found friends among the guards, spent evenings with Old Nan listening as she told stories to the children and more than once took someone into the Godswood to speak or teach them. His main priority remained the Starks, but day by day Beorn was making himself a place in their home.

////////////////////

“Riders my lord.”

“How many?”

“Three, all in black.”

“Benjen.” Ned said to himself.

He instructed Ser Rodrick to gather his family together so they could greet their uncle properly. Walking out into the courtyard he knew Maw was at the same time leaving the Godswood with Crag following close behind. The entire Stark clan converged on the main gate. Ned took Rickon up into his arms when the young boy asked.

“Do you know who's coming?”

Rickon nodded, “Unc Benjin.”

Ned smiled, “That’s right, you’re Uncle Benjen.”

“He have wolf?”

“No I don’t think so.”

Rickon thought very hard on that, frowning as he went over his father’s answer. “He need wolf, he Stark!” The boy insisted.

As Benjen rode through the gate Ned saw Crag perk up and lock his gaze on him.

“Maybe he does.”

Leaving the thought unfinished Ned smiled and went to embrace his brother.

///////////


	7. Bran The Builder, Bran The Maker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A heads up to everyone, this chapter is gonna have a lot of Beorn talking. Mostly telling the story of Bran the Builder and the Long Night. I want to clarify that this is my AU version of events and will definitely twist or outright ignore canon elements of the story. I have no doubt the canon Long Night goes very differently. I’m not trying to make the Starks out as uber-saviours but this is a Stark-centric story. They are not perfect, but I wanted to give the current generation a way to relate to their history, good and bad. I want the Starks of GRRM’s books to reclaim that grand spirit that the Kings of Winter seemed to have, that I believe you can see hints of in Ned’s children. I appreciate any criticism or commentary, thank you all for reading!

Ned led Benjen into his solar. He’d had to pry his the children off him with promises of a special dinner in honour of their uncle’s return. Offering some bread and wine, the two Starks sat down and got a good look at each other for the first time in three years, they’d not been together since Rickon’s birth. 

“It’s damn good to see you Ned.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes Ben.”

Conversation was pleasant and light, though it turned to grimmer when Benjen revealed the latest news from the Wall.

“Less than a thousand men.” Ned could hardly believe it.

“The Old Bear fears that we might have to abandon Eastwatch if things get worse.”

“Two castles… how can that stop any Wildlings?”

“That’s my point Ned, it can’t. We already have too many raiders getting by every year. They know the Gift and New Gift are practically deserted. They’re moving on to Umber Lands, the Mountains and Bear Island. Gods forbid what would happen if one of them got it into their heads to occupy one of the castles.”

“In this state I might have to call the banners.” 

“The banners may not be enough.” Benjen rose and dug into his discarded cloak. He returned with a stack of parchment and unfolded over the small table. It was dozens of reports and numbers made in Ben’s hand. “The Rangers have been keeping track of the wildlings, the ones crossing and the ones staying behind.” He pulled out one specific piece, it was a rough sketch of the lands beyond the Wall, it had a journey marked out crisscrossing the land from east to west and south to north. “I’ve personally done my best to keep track of one man in particular, Mance Rayder.” 

“That sounds familiar.”

Benjen nodded, “He accompanied Qhorin Halfhand on his last visit.”

“This Rayder is one of yours.”

“No longer, he abandoned the Wall and went to live with the Wildlings. He’s also been amassing a large tribe, making peace as conquering as he goes. Lord Mormont fears he’s set on becoming the next King-Beyond-The-Wall. Thankfully we have years before he’ll be strong enough to challenge us.”

Ned leaned back into his chair, thinking hard.

“Perhaps it's time I wrote to Robert.”

“About settling the Gift?” Benjen asked. “The South’s had little interest in the Watch since the Kingdoms united, it would take more than a King-Beyond-The-Wall to change their minds. Fewer than a thousand Southerners marched with Willam when Raymun Redbeard plagued our lands.”

“The Crown does owe some debt to the North, Robert took a loan from us after the Greyjoy Rebellion that he has yet to pay back.” Ned took a deep breath. “I do not like leveraging my friend but with things so dire I may have no choice.”

They huddled together and talked deep into the night.

//////////

“Watch your legs, it’ll keep you from getting your ear cuffed next time!”

Benjen helped Robb back to his feet. He was eager to see how his nephews fared with a sword in hand and declared he would take them to task. 

Taking a break, Benjen sat down next to Ned while taking a long drink of water. “Ser Rodrik’s not coddled them, that I can be sure of.”

“If they had their way, lessons with Luwin would be replaced entirely.”

They watched Rodrik guide Robb through practice swinging his sword atop a wooden saddle. Winterfell’s Master-at-arms had decided it was time for the boys to learn more of mounted combat. Jon had wandered away to practice his archery.

Benjen smiled, “It's good to be back, though things have definitely changed. Your children have shot up like weeds for one.”

“You nearly fainted when you caught sight of Maw and my children’s height is the strangest thing you’ve seen.”

Benjen rubbed his eyes, “Don’t start on those wolves Ned, or that strange man you’ve welcomed into your home.”

“Beorn’s no stranger. I’ve told you, without him we’d have never found the vault. Nevermind the fact that we share blood.” 

“Long lost family… those books… I don’t know what to think of all this Ned.” Benjen admitted.

The two saw a group of men catch sight of something around the corner of the yard and rapidly make their way in the other direction. The gaggle of direwolf pups and their parents, all escorting Lady Catelyn, would be enough to send the bravest of men running. 

“Ned, Benjen.” Catelyn took her own seat, entwining hands with her husband. “Have you decided what’s to be done with the pups during the celebrations?”

“Beorn says that Maw and Green Eyes will keep them confined to the Godswood. I’ll put men at the entrance to ensure no one goes in unaware. Though I’ll have to show them off at some point, the wolves could go a long way in convincing the Lords that our House is reconnecting with the Shepherds.” 

“All these mysteries and secrets.” she bemoaned. 

“Exactly my thoughts Cat.” Benjen said. 

Ned gives Benjen a slap on the back. “Has all that bravery you preen about to my sons disappeared? Come along, I’ll introduce you to Beorn properly.”

Winterfell’s Shepherd was in the Godswood with Sansa, Arya and Bran. They all had wax tablets and stylus in front of them. Beorn was leaning against a tree with a small fiddle made of dark red wood playing a soothing tune. 

“Writing!” The children startled at Benjen’s cry, “I didn’t know I had Maesters for nieces and nephews.”

Eager to share, they explained that Beorn’s lesson today was about how the First Men told stories. Sansa was particularly excited to learn that the First Men also wrote poetry. He wanted the children to pick a story or make one up and write it properly. 

“Beorn recited some for me and it was absolutely beautiful! Especially when it was in Old Tongue!” Sansa gushed.

“I can’t wait to hear it dear, any ideas on what you’ll write about?”

She nodded quickly, obviously excited. “I was going to write something about Queen Alysanne but then I remembered the story of Queen Maegel.”

“Maegel?” Benjen frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of her.”

“Oh Uncle it's a great story, Queen Maegel was the eldest daughter of House Field and in the old days she was wed to a King of Winter. In preparation for her wedding she went out into the Blackwood (that’s the really old name for the Wolfswood) and made a dress out of ice! She was so beautiful that on her way back to Winterfell a direwolf began following her thinking she was a star in the sky!”

Ned leaned down and kissed his daughter’s forehead before turning to the other two. “And what tale are you two interested in?”

Bran turned his tablet around so Ned could see the beginning lines of his work.

“I’m writing about Micah Snowsteed, the man who rode all the way from the Frostfangs to Dorne!”

Arya butted in front of her brother, her tablet had a few runes in the corners, the bulk of the surface had a simplistic drawing of a bear with a sword in its hand.  

“My story is about Joran the She-Bear!”

They listened along as Arya expounded the history on how Joran lived on Bear Island when the Woodfoots still ruled it. After the Ironborn conquered the island, Joran lived among the bears and killed any Ironborn that strayed too far into her woods. When the Starks finally won the Island back, daughters descended from Joran married with the Mormonts. A bit too gruesome of a children’s tale for Ned’s taste, but Arya was unique in that way.

“It's almost time for dinner, go tell your mother about the lesson and then get ready.”

Arya was at a sprint so fast you’d think she was being offered the chance to see a dragon, Bran was on her heels not far behind. Sansa shook her head and followed. He turned back to find Benjen staring intently at Beorn, who was looking at the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch with some trepidation. 

“Lord Benjen.”

“You’re the mysterious Shepherd then.”

“Yes my lord.”

“You’re also my cousin apparently.”

“Distantly, through your Great-Great-Grand-Aunt.”

“I find it odd that I never heard of your kind while at the Wall.”

“We are not welcome among the Night’s Watch my lord, much to our disappointment.”

“And why would that be?”

Ned worried he’d have to step in if Benjen chose to keep pressing Beorn. 

“There’s too many worshippers of the Seven on the Wall. Combine that with the hatred of wildlings and there’s no doubt any Shepherd sent to the Wall would be found dead within a year. The Shepherds are a well kept secret, a wives tale, most of us live as tradesman and farmers only acting as Shepherds when needed. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were Shepherds on the Wall, men who took the Black to keep an eye on things.” 

“Suppose I ask Lord Commander Mormont. Ask what he knows of you Shepherds.”

“If he is a true Mormont he would tell you gladly. Bear Island has been a home to the Shepherds for centuries, their daughters and sons often take our oaths. No doubt the Lord Commander is well informed, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was still in contact with the Shepherds of his home.” Beorn answered. 

Benjen looked back to Ned, he looked unsatisfied.

“My brother says you’ve been teaching him history.”

“As well as I can.”

“Surely then you know of the Watch, even if the Watch doesn’t know of you.”

That poked at something important, for Beorn stood putting his fiddle to the side.

“Oh they know of us,” Beorn yelled back. “your Black Brothers have been more than one of mine to the blade for nothing more than their existence! We have a saying that if the Crows could see beyond their beaks they would be able to do more than eat off their dead!”

Benjen went eye to eye with his opponent, “What do you know the Watch, of the Wall greenboy! I will not stand here and have my oaths insulted by a pup.” he snarled.

“And I won’t let your disrespect of the North’s history stand in my presence!”

Their teeth were bared and their fists tensed, all it would take is a twitch and they’d beat each other senseless. Benjen did not take well to strangers and Beorn had the temper of youth.  

Their attention was focused on each other, until the rumble of a growl. 

“Crag?” Beorn was confused.

The adolescent wolf must have slipped into the Godswood during their argument. He’d advanced forward and stopped… at Benjen’s side. Crag was obviously not happy, Beorn observed him then stepped back.

“I apologise Lord Benjen.” he bowed.

Reassessing the past few minutes, Benjen bowed in return, “I apologise as well. I fear what ignorance on the scale Ned’s hinted at could mean for the Watch and the North as a whole.”

With the space between them Crag had settled down, his attention shifting from Beorn to Benjen.

“Hello.” 

Crag didn’t move. Beorn chuckled at the sight. Looking between the two, he collected his bag and harp.

“We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I hope we can move past this. Will you be joining Lord Stark and his sons tonight?”

“What’s happening tonight Ned?”

“The reason I wanted to introduce you two now was so you’d be more inclined to join us in the Godswood tonight. Beorn believes that with you here there will be no better opportunity to share a special lesson.”

Benjen raised his eyebrows at the Shepherd.

“I’m here for more than teaching, I’m here to remind you of who you are. Jon and Robb are old enough now to learn, eventually Sansa, Arya and Bran will learn this lesson too.”

“What have we forgotten?” Benjen asked.

“Your origins.”

/////////////

“What do you know about Bran the Builder?”

“He built the Wall.” Robb said.

“And Winterfell.” Jon added.

Beorn looked between the two. It was quiet in the Godswood, Beorn had dug a small fire pit to light the clearing they were resting in. Ned and Benjen sat beside each other listening as well. The Shepherd looked to the elder Starks for their own answers.

“He was the first Stark.” Ned supplied.

“He gave the Night’s Watch the Gift.” Benjen answered.

Stoking the fire, Beorn took a moment to breathe the crisp air before beginning his story.

“Bran the Builder is old. So old that even the records of the Shepherds are nothing but copies of copies of copies, and the originals are only the written versions of tales and songs shared for generations.” He took a swig of wine and offered the skin to Ned. “Some Maesters say that Bran never existed, that everything he built or did was actually the work of a dozen men mixed into one legendary figure.”

Benjen passed the skin to Jon after taking his own drink, “Do you know the truth of it then?”

“I would say so. What must be understood is that the Age of Heroes was a different time. Magic was everywhere, it permeated the world. From the deepest forests of the Old Gods to the blooddrenched pyramids of Ghis, there were wonders and terrors beyond imagination. You know the legends, that the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne and warred with the Children of the Forest for dominion of Westeros. All that came to an end when the two groups made the Pact.”

Beorn added another log to the fire.

“Most tell that the Pact was a way to end the stalemate of the war. The Shepherds teach that this agreement was not made out of desire for peace, but an alliance of desperation.”

“Desperation?”

“The Children and the First Men needed each other, to fight the Others.”

None of the Starks interrupted.

“As the Children lost more and more ground to the invaders, they became desperate. They decided to try and create a weapon to destroy them. They kidnapped many strong warriors and finally found one that suited their purpose. Using the most ancient of magics, they stole his soul and bound it to a great heart tree in the Lands-of-Always-Winter. When the man rose again, his heart no longer beat. The warmth of life had left him, all that remained was cold flesh unable to die. They made a dozen more, but the first they had created was father to the rest.”

Robb wrapped himself tighter with his furs. The clearing felt colder than before, the fire seemed to exude no heat.

“The Children unleashed their monsters. The First Men fled and the Children who beget the monster were hopeful. They did not know what they had created. After one battle, where the Children had used their magic to bury a hundred First Men beneath the earth, the Others called out to them. The Other was an abomination, neither living nor dead. The theory goes that using his corrupted Heart Tree the Other stole power from the Old Gods and became something more, a being of darkness. The corpses rose from the ground, twisted into Wights. The first act of the Other with its new army was to kill its creators. The Wights devoured them, drinking their blood like mead though it gave no sustenance. From then on, the Other destroyed everything in its path, bringing eternal snow and ice behind it. Weakened by breaking its chains, the Others retreated in the Lands-Of-Always-Winter to regain their strength. When they did return it was to once and for all plunge the world into darkness”

“You’re talking about the Long Night.” Jon whispered.

Beorn nodded. “They descended from the far North, wiping out all the lived. Their numbers growing after every battle. We don’t know how but the Great Other, the Night’s King, found a way to turn the strongest of those captured into new White Walkers. Children and Men retreated south together, they fled all the way to the Riverlands. On the Isle of Faces, the greatest of their Kings met with the Elders of the Children and the Giant Chieftains.”

“Then they made the Pact.”

“Not just any pact Jon. A marriage pact.”

“Between who?” Benjen was confused, “The First Men Kings?”

“With the Children.” Ned guessed.

“Exactly. A King took one for a wife and they had a child. They named him Bran.”

The men around the fire were dumbfounded. They’d heard old wives tales about how different people across the North had interacted with the legendary Children of the Forest. The people of the Neck supposedly intermingled with them giving rise to their short stature, the Warg Kings of the west were said to have employed them as teachers during their reign, and of course Bran the Builder had their aid in erecting the Wall. 

“Bran was the first man with the Greensight. The first man to truly speak with the Old Gods. His very existence was a miracle and in the face of the Long Night he was a symbol of unity.”

The fire was beginning to fade but Beorn didn’t add any fuel.

“Bran grew up fostered in the stronghold of Storm’s End learning to fight from the Durrandons. He traveled to Highgarden where the Gardeners taught him how to farm. In the bowels of the Rock he became friends with Lann, the second son of the Casterlys, and they spent their days learning all there was to know. In the high peaks of the Vale, Bran learned horsemanship from the Winged Rider himself.”

“Do you mean the Winged Knight?” Ned tried to clarify.

“Knights... when Bran walked the land the Seven were nothing, their blessed warriors even less.” Beorn dismissed. “The Winged Rider warred with Giants to take dominion of what little lands in the Vale that were habitable. He had no gold or jewels, but his steeds flew faster than the birds.”

“Where were the Others during all this?” Robb questioned.

“Marching south. Their winter had began shortly before Bran’s birth and had not ended. The First Men and the Children sent armies North, constructing forts and outposts where they could to turn back the forces of the dead. The War was unending and by Bran’s twentieth nameday it seemed unwinnable.”

“Twenty years of winter!” Benjen cried. “No one could survive that long.”

“They survived that and more.” Beorn insisted. “It was thankful that the First Men had allies across the sea. Food and supplies came across the Stepstones, warriors as well. For the Great Other did not just focus on Westeros, he wished for the entire known world to fall. His armies crossed the Grey Wastes of Essos and warred with the people there too.”

“Bran’s father, Brannon, was King of the Wolfmen an old people who traveled with Garth Greenhand when he first crossed over the Narrow Sea. Now that is an event so lost to history that even the Shepherds have no idea why Garth left his lands. Either way, Brannon died in battle and Bran ascended, he would bring about the end of the Long Night.”

“How could one man turn back the dead?”

“One man couldn’t. Bran knew that. Up until his crowning, the First Men had operated on their own. They didn’t war with each other, but they fought on occasion. They couldn’t trust each other. Bran though, had the touch of the Old Gods and intimate friendships with many of the Great Kings, he even ventured to Essos and gained the aid of the people there. For the next 20 years, Bran led the First Men beating the Others back into the North. Unlike his elders Bran understood that to push back the dead once and for all they needed a way to remain in the North even when the winter reached its worse.”

“How could an eternal winter get worse.”

“You have to understand my lord, this was not natural winter. In the days before the Other was created, the seasons were shorter. Summer, spring, autumn and winter only lasted a few months before turning.”

None of his listeners looked convinced.

“Bran convinced many Kings to construct holds all focused on keeping his people alive under the fury of the Night’s King. He planned to hold the enemies attention in the North allowing the southern lands a chance to recover. The Lockes built Oldcastle, the Barrow Kings reclaimed their lands, the Red Boltons staked their Dreadfort, the farthest the armies of the living had made it was a place called the Last River, where the Umbers, who were kin to the Giants, rested upon a great craig. Hundreds of tribes and Kings fought tooth and nail for every inch of the North. All were in agreement that unless the Long Night ended there was no point in conquering one another.” 

The wine had run out. The shadows danced across the tree trunks, giving the darkness a life of its own.

“Bran built his own home next to a large Godswood and dug to find hidden hot springs. The great structure he built saw many Kings meeting to plan their war.”

“Winterfell.” Jon smiled, glancing at the towers in the distance with a newfound awe.

“In those days they called it Winter’s Home.”

“Why did the name change?” Benjen said to himself.

“For all its malice, the Night’s King was not mindless. It's possible it saw that the war was turning in our favour. That would explain why they marched on Winter’s Home during the Harvest Feast.”

“They still held the Feast, even during Winter?” Ned was surprised, he’d read about the Harvest Feast being cancelled for less.

“Feast may have been an exaggeration, truly it was a way to gather a huge number of Men in one place without raising tension or strife. The occasion was seen as sacred and Bran was fanatical about observing guest rights.”

“They would have felt safe to discuss the war.” Benjen summarised.

“Scouts reached them quickly, bearing news that the Others were stirring in the True North. Dozens of tribes and petty Kings arrived fearing the dead’s renewed assault. There were many more who disappeared without word once the ice began to cover everything.”

“They could have just fled south, they’d obviously done it before.”

“Bran’s guests said the same thing Jon. He argued otherwise. He believed that at Winter’s Home, they could finally break the back of the dead and kill the Night’s King. Thanks to Bran’s foresight and the sacrifices of many brave warriors, they had a scant few years to prepare for the inevitable siege. With the help of the Giants, Bran raised both of the stone curtain walls and dug the moat while the rest of his men constructed hundreds of yards of wooden palisade and trenches. He sent the Children of the Forest to gather ancient glitter glass from the deep places of the world.” 

Beorn stood up, and pulled a small oil lamp from his bag. He used a small piece of kindling to light it and walked to the looming Heart Tree. Hesitantly, the others followed him. 

“Heroes from all corners of Westeros answered Bran’s call for aid. Durran III brought enough archers to make the sky rain with arrows, Lann the Clever disobeyed his father and arrived at the head of a host of Westernmen, Gwayne Gardener brought a bountiful supply of cavalry and enough food to keep the armies fed, the Royces and Griffins rode with their hardiest steeds, even the Grey King sent a score of his sons by boat, not to be outdone the Kings of the Riverlands sent hundreds of men with barrels of pitch and oil. Finally, the Sword of Dayne came with uncountable Dornish spears after making peace with the Fowlers and Yronwoods. It was an army unlike any ever assembled.”

Through the Godswood he walked, stepping behind the great Heart Tree. He carefully pushed apart the thick bushes crowding the tree base.

“Is that a rune?” Robb peered closer at a slab of ancient stone laid into the ground.

“A little help here Jon, Robb.” Beorn and the two teens carefully took hold and slid the slab to the side. Underneath was a cramped staircase made of rough stone. 

“Now I only know what my father’s told me. Things might be different than expected so be careful.” Beorn told the rest as he descended into the hole.

Cramped stairs made way for a cramped tunnel, damp and chilly. Ned brushed his hand along the walls, embedded in the dirt was sparse rocks and rotted wood but around all that snaked white roots. The tunnel curved and sloped downwards, Ned guessed they were circling the inner godswood. 

“This has to be as deep as the crypts.”

“Deeper Lord Benjen!” Beorn called back. “If I remember my lessons right, the door should be right… here! Lord Stark, if you would come to the front.”

Ned squeezed past his sons, coming to a thick knot of roots that covered a section  of wall from floor to ceiling. 

“On the eve of battle Bran revealed he had a gift for every warrior present that the many wives and daughters had laboured on. A black cloak made from wool and feather. Donning one himself, declaring that as long as the Great Other lived, they would be its enemy, thus the Night’s Watch was born. When the Night’s King did arrive, the Battle for the Dawn began. The sun vanished and for 20 days they fought. Unknown to all but Bran, the Night’s King had also sent an army and his strongest lieutenant to put an end to the Essosi who met their foes at the edge of the Grey Wastes.”

Beorn took out his ceremonial knife. The same one he’d used to pledge himself to Ned weeks earlier.

“The Night’s King slaughtered its way into the Godswood, where Bran awaited it. With nothing but a sword of obsidian Bran dueled the Great Other. Bran never told his sons how he defeated the evil, only that it came at a great cost. With their King fallen the other Walkers retreated and the Wights became corpses once again, and summer returned to the world.”

Taking Ned’s hand, Beorn made a small cut over the thumb and squeezed to encourage the blood. He placed Ned’s hand on the roots.

“Bran’s work was far from over, he went further North and began his greatest project yet. A fortification that would protect the realms of men should the Others try to return. While he dedicated his time to the Wall, his son Brandon the Stark, known for his strong, straightforward sense of honour and dedication, took over rulership of Winter’s Home now known as the place where Winter Fell. Bran died after living 205 years, his body was burned then brought back to Winterfell by a procession of a five thousand mourners. This is his tomb.”

“Say your words my lord.” Beorn whispered.

Jon Arryn had once told him, “History is made of seconds Ned, all small, all personal. The actions of one man have forever shaped the actions of others. You yourself may one day take such an action and you will remember it.” There were few times in Ned’s life where he felt the stillness of the moment. He felt it when he watched the rubies fall into the Trident, when Robert sat upon the Iron Throne, when he walked into the Tower of Joy and saw Lyanna lying in that bed. 

He felt it now. House Stark were solemn by reputation but the truth was they held passion and anger as easily as honour and selflessness. The Gods were watching him, The North looked to him, his children held him above the rest. He would not fail them, he couldn’t. 

He had a duty, the Starks had a duty.

Because - “Winter is Coming.” 

///////////////////////


	8. An Oath in Ice

It was dark and dry. The roots had given way like a curtain, Ned couldn’t tell how big the chamber on the other side was. The light from Beorn’s small lamp barely made his hands visible. Even without seeing he could feel the goosebumps crawl up his skin. The chamber was cold, unnaturally so. It reminded him of the chill that permeated the book vault. 

Beorn stepped past Ned, taking small steps feeling for the wall and letting it guide him along the edges of the space. He stopped and leaned down, the lamp briefly disappeared before the room brightened considerably. Ned’s eyes adjusted slowly, Beorn was next to a stone bowl he’d filled with fresh charcoal and lit. Ned looked behind him to check on Robb and Jon while Beorn lit another bowl. He noticed Benjen was crouched scrubbing at the floor. 

“What is it?” Ned whispered, he felt that shouting in this place would be disrespectful.

“This stone, it reminds me of the Nightfort.” he answered.

All five men could stand comfortably in the room. It was perhaps seven feet from floor to ceiling with curved walls turning the whole room into a circle. Beorn finished with his light and moved to the part of the wall opposite the entrance. He knelt and lit a brazier.

“By the Old Gods.” Ned uttered.

Sitting against the wall, previously enshrouded in the darkness was a stone statue. A rough hewn throne just like the ones in the Winterfell Crypts. Sitting in it was the likeness of a man. Though the statue was worn from age, some features and details remained. A long face with longer hair and a sparse beard, stern eyes and a hard frown. Carved across his shoulders was a massive wolf pelt that draped over his crude armour, and sitting on his head was a simplistic band engraved with runes. Completing the likeness was a sword laid across his lap, but unlike the rusted bronze blades that decorated the crypt statues this one was slick, shiny, made of reflective black stone. It reminded Ned of the arrowheads and chips he and Lyanna used to collect in the Wolfswood. 

Beorn turned back to them, “This is the tomb of Bran the Builder.”

“Why was he buried here and not in the crypts?” Benjen asked.

“They hadn’t been built yet, they would only be dug out when Bran’s son finally passed.” Beorn set down his bags. “On his deathbed, Bran gave his son three secrets, made him take three oaths. These were to be kept, remembered and passed down to all Starks. Bran believed that these were so important that he made his son, Brandon the Summer King, swear on the bones of his grandfather.”

“Do you know them Beorn?”

“Yes my lord. Berena Stark was told them the day before her wedding, she passed them on to her children and my father passed them onto me.”

“I take it these oaths are not meant to be known to the young.” Benjen said while looking at Robb and Jon. 

The two boys looked ready to argue when Beorn cut them off.

“Normally a Stark is brought here when they’ve become an adult, or before they’re set to leave Winterfell. If the tradition still stood while you’re father was alive my lord, you would have probably been brought here before departing for the Eyrie, and Lord Benjen before leaving for the Watch.”

Beorn took a moment to stoke the fires and give more light to the room.

“He looks like you father.” Jon said, peering at the statue.

“There is a strong resemblance to both of you my lords.”

“Beorn if I’m to guess correctly, you mean to have us swear on the grave of our ancestor. What did you swear on when it was your turn?”

“On Skagos, there is a Weirwood so old that the bark has petrified. It’s known as the Stone Heart. Bran lived on Skagos for a time when he was first learning to warg and built a home next to the Stone Heart. Shepherds with Stark blood are often interred underneath Bran’s old abode. It was the closest we could come to being at Winterfell. But enough chatter, the night grows late and I’d rather have this done before the dawn arrives.”

They arranged themselves on one knee spread in front of the statue with Beorn standing behind them. Each placed a hand on the memorial. Jon and Benjen on the knees, while Ned and Robb touched its hands.

When Beorn spoke, there was a gravity to his words.

“Starks come to honour Bran but Bran is a long dead man. He is silent as the stone content within his home.”

It was almost a lymeric.

“Yet Bran is blood to you and so he shall give you three vows, three oaths, three secrets to hold when you are weakest.”

Laying his hands upon them one after another, they each repeated after him.

“By bronze and blood, I am Stark to my bones. Your vows I shall take, your oaths I shall honour and your secrets I will hold. Let the Old Gods hear and know, I am Stark down to my bones.” they recited.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Again they repeated after the Shepherd. “When your family is strong, when your lands are strong, when your people are strong, then the North will be strong.” 

Ned realized these were lessons, advice that Bran gave the first Stark, lessons that formed the bedrock of their family’s identity. 

“When the Wall shakes and kings die, the Others shall claim all that lives. Take heart in each other and let no creed or deed shatter your ties. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Each of them experienced something unnatural as they finished their oath.

Benjen could make out distant horn blasts, the kind he often heard when returning to the Wall. One blast for a returning brother, two blasts for wildlings, three blasts… Benjen had never heard the third blast, no man of the Night’s Watch had in thousands of years. Yet he heard the third blast all the same and within his own mind a voice whispered, “And now my watch begins, I take my place among the  _ Skilvad. _ ” It was young and full of energy, “for this night,” but it quickly faded, crackled and wheezed like that of a greybeard struggling for breath, “and all the nights to come.”

For Robb, the quiet breathing of his brother next to him was drowned out by the chanting of men. A cacophony of shouts that Robb could only liken to when Winterfell held a great feast. “The Stark in Winterfell!” they chanted, “The Young Wolf!  _ Brudarhov! _ ” they bellowed. Even that was overpowered by the thunder of horses, the clash of blades and splintering of spears.

Jon noticed the warmth of the braziers had disappeared. He heard harsh winds sweeping across the Godswood above. What sounded like a thousand tons of ice breaking was only stopped by a young woman’s voice calling from a far distance, her laugh sounding like a chime, “ _ Veyg Arn _ Lord Snow!”.

Ned felt the unbearable urge to open his eyes. The room had gone dark, only Bran was visible to him. He couldn’t hear or feel Benjen at his side. Before he had time to panic, the statue’s eyes opened. Underneath the stone lids was a deep red light that intermingled with streams of green. “You are the blood of Kings and Queens, Eddard, Wolf Lord,  _ Ien Fer Ulf _ .” The voice was deep, but not overwhelming. “You shall be the turning point.” It reminded him of his Grandfather, an old man who he could recall telling him and Brandon stories of the Kings of Winter. He’d died when Ned was very young, but his stories had stuck with him. “Rule wisely, and when Winter comes… look to the Wall.” It was a command, it was advice, it was a father speaking to a son. Then Ned felt only the cool stone of the floor and the deep breaths of his sons and brother.

/////////////////////

The deeply affected men of the Stark household would normally have faced heavier scrutiny for their strange behaviour in the days following their oath taking. It was lucky for them that the rest of Winterfell was preoccupied with preparing for Sansa’s nameday. Ned and Benjen all but lived in the solar going over maps, old reports, trying to get Benjen literate in Old Tongue and generally making the most of their limited time together. 

Robb was shaken certainly. As heir he’d always been expected to learn how to lead men but his dreams still resonated with the sound of battle. He’d never been so committed to his training, moving at a blinding pace through a variety of weapons and focusing on his horsemanship. He’d also pleaded with his father to increase the lessons on lordship. The idea of being called The Stark in Winterfell had long been one of Robb’s daydreams but hearing it in his own head and hearing the shouts of loyalty from others was like night and day. The responsibility was becoming all too real, particularly now that Robb was privy to the exact workings of the North; its tax system, schedules, mundane troubles. Being Warden of the North was a difficult task. As a consequence spent less time with Theon if it didn’t involve his studies or training. The Greyjoy had seemed emboldened to begin taking his own learning more seriously but quickly backed off and left Robb to his own pursuits. 

Jon had become more sullen if that was ever thought possible. He retreated to the Godswood often and kept to his chambers for many days. None were as displeased about his change in mood as Arya, who made it her duty to drag him out of his room as often as possible. While his sister’s efforts went a long way in lightening his mood, Jon’s melancholy remained. 

Lady Stark was bustling from dawn to dusk, preparing food, gathering supplies, and having the massive keep swept and cleaned from the deepest larder to the highest chamber. Sansa was by her side every step of the way. The two had bonded over the preparations and Sansa had pleaded with her mother to be of use, due in no part to Beorn’s explanation that in the many places in the North the Lady of the castle was expected to run the household. Lady Catelyn was a fine example of a southern noblewoman, who had learnt that her duty was to raise the children and attend guests. She’d adapted admirably to the extra duties thrust upon her but in comparison to other Northern Ladies she still did comparably less work, relying on the experienced servants to help manage Winterfell. Inspired, Sansa had taken it upon herself to organise all of the rooms and dorms to accommodate their guests. She’d even roped Arya into helping her choose the type of entertainers to invite to the feast.

One morning Jon asked Benjen to accompany him on a walk in the yard. They’d gone onto the battlements and finally had some privacy away from the rest of the Starks. 

“Uncle?”

“Yes Jon?”

“Did you ever feel jealous of father?”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“That he got to be Lord of Winterfell, or even Uncle Brandon before that?”

Benjen took too long to answer. 

Jon looked up at him, imploringly. “I want to be something Uncle. I want to be more than just the bastard of Winterfell. But…”

“But you don’t want to step over your brothers to do it.” Benjen supplied.

“Never. I love them, they’re my family and I’d protect them with my life. Robb will be a great Lord one day. I would consider it a gift if I’d be able to serve him.”

“Are you jealous Jon?”

“I thought I wasn’t. Yet I’m scared, scared that I’ll end up just like those bastards Septa Mordane used to warn Sansa and Arya about. Living my life with one eye on my brother’s holdings, just waiting for the chance to make it mine.” In his own mind echos of “Lord Snow” rose and fell. 

“You’re nothing like that Jon. You’ll find a place, your father will make sure of it.” Benjen reassured him.

“I could always join the Night’s Watch. Serve the realm at your side.”

“Oh Jon,” Benjen rested a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “don’t make such decisions so quickly. The Night’s Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families or lands. We have the Wall and each other. Our wife is duty, our mistress is honour. At least for those of us with dignity left to spare.”

“I could rise high!” Jon insisted.

“Aye you could. With dedication and the Stark name behind you, you wouldn’t be the first Snow to become a Lord-Commander.”

Jon’s eyes were hopeful now, his Uncle seemed to be agreeing with him.

“But the Watch will always be there Jon. The Wall will always be there. You don’t know what you’re giving up. Like a blind man deciding to deafen himself rather than be forced to hear the voices of people he cannot see. Explore the world, fall in love, father a few bastards of your own and then if you still wish to, take the Black.”

That had been the wrong thing to say. Jon looked heartbroken and furious at the same time. He shoved Benjen’s hand away.

“I’ll never father a bastard and there’s no life for me here!” He took off running, scampering down the staircase and running off into the courtyard. 

He’d had the same doubts as Jon, though not nearly as guiltful. He knew full well that if he’d chosen to remain Ned would have given him good land and found him a good wife. Thinking back, he might’ve spared Jon all the pain of his name by taking him in to his own household. 

Shaking himself, Benjen began following after his nephew. Stopping short when Crag emerged from the Hunter’s Gate, plodding along right up to him. Unsure and perhaps slightly frightened Benjen looked back to see that Beorn had run into Jon. They were talking while Beorn led them back into the Keep. Benjen resolved to find Ned, his brother would want to know what Jon had asked about. Going to the Wall was not something to be done without your father’s approval. His choice had nothing to do with being stalked by a beast that was strong enough to rip a man’s leg off yet seemed to have a habit of following him around Winterfell with curiosity… not at all. 

///////////////////////////

“I invited you to come along because you seemed troubled. Sometimes you need to get away from everything to truly clear your head.”

Jon adjusted his furs as he walked beside Beorn. “What do you normally do in Wintertown? Robb said that you go at least once every few days.”

“I visit some townspeople I’ve become friendly with. Walk through the market. Listen to people’s troubles.”

“That’s all?” Jon frowned. “I thought priests were supposed to preach?”

Beorn squinted at Jon, “That is what priests generally do yes.”

“Then why aren’t you doing that?”

“I’m not a priest Jon.” The Shepherd slowly said.

“Yes you are. You’re a priest of the Old Gods.”

“I think you may be misunderstanding what a Shepherd is.”

“Then explain it to me.” Jon’s earlier frustration was creeping back into his voice.

“What would be the point of priest? When a man or woman wishes to pray they only need to go sit in the Godswood. If they wish to plead for safety or courage they do so in silence. You know as well as I do that the Old Gods don’t care if you tack on flowery words or wear silken robes, they know what’s in your heart and that can’t be hidden.”

“I’ve heard Septa Mordane say that ordinary folk cannot reach the Gods. That’s why they Septons and Septas to do it for them.”

“Perhaps for the Seven that’s true. Maybe the Father and Mother only speak to those who have dedicated their life and lot to them. Whatever they believe the truth of the Old Gods is the truth of the woods and water. Forests grow and streams flow whether men wish them to or not. The Trident didn’t stop roaring because a thousand men dyed it red just as the Wolfswood didn’t wither away when the Kings of Winter scoured the Blackwoods from the land. Shepherds are less priests and more knowledge keepers, who dedicate part of themselves to aiding others.”

Jon considered Beorn’s explanation and let the matter drop. 

Passing through the town square, their conversation was interrupted by a gaggle of mothers coming over to them. Some had babes swaddled to their chests. They greeted Beorn and gave Jon awkward greetings of his own, but the women focused on the Shepherd. They talked about news, shared some rumors and generally just caught up with Beorn, one woman did ask if Beorn knew how to mix a “stomach soother” like her grandmother used to. Bidding the women farewell with a promise to delivery the remedy within a week, Beorn led on. 

After stopping to chat with a carpenter and his son, they finally made it to the Wintertown Godswood, it was a few minutes outside of the village hidden in a grove of trees. Unlike Winterfell there was no towering Heart Tree, this one was modest and bore a different but still ominously shaped carved face. The quiet was the same though, the peace Jon felt was recognizable.

“What did your uncle say about you joining the Watch?” Beorn asked.

Jon couldn’t meet his teacher’s eyes, “He told me I didn’t know what I was asking. That I didn’t know what I was giving up.”

“Rather than dwell on what you might lose, I’m more interested in what you hope to gain.”

“Honour.” Jon answered reflexively.

“You can find honour here.” Beorn countered.

“Not in Winterfell.”

“Because of Lady Stark?”

“There’s no honour in being a burden to your family.” Jon refuted.

“There’s no honour in lying in front of the Old Gods.” Beorn threw back.

Jon looked to the Heart Tree, staring into the sappy red eyes. He bowed his head and gave a short prayer in apology.

“I’m not want to insult your father or Lady Stark, but the truth is you’ve lived a very insular life Jon and I think its made you ill-prepared to make choices about your future.”

“I don’t understand everyone’s reluctance. Starks have went to the Wall for generations, Benjen did it and he was trueborn. Why is it so difficult to believe a bastard could do the same.”

“Because they want better for you Jon.” Beorn answered.

Vulnerable and unsure were Beorn’s impression of Jon at that moment. He seemed to want so badly to believe that his family would always welcome him but there was a streak of stubborn practicality that stopped him from embracing that familial love. 

“I want someone to need me.” Jon looked back toward Wintertown. “I want to have a place, like you do.”

“The future's not ours to know. Even the wisest Greenseers can only glimpse cryptic peaks of our fate. So unless you’ve received word from the Old Gods that you’re destined to live the rest of your life on the Wall dressed in black, don’t resign yourself to it.”

“If not to the Wall, then where am I to go?”

Beorn looked to the Heart Tree, the wind picked up and he closed his eyes. The wind blew leaves and sticks through the clearing, the red leaves of the weirwoods dancing between him and Jon. 

“Skagos.”

“Skagos?”

Beorn smiled and looked at Jon.

“If Lord Stark agrees, I’ll write to my father. I’m sure he’d be happy to have you.”

“Like fostering? What would I even do there?”

“Learn, explore, meet new people. That’ll be up to you. If you’re interested in what Shepherds there’s no better place to find out than Skagos.”

“And you’re sure you’re father will be open to it.” There was definitely excitement in Jon’s voice. 

“I think you keep forgetting that we are family Jon.”

The two spent the rest of the day in town before returning to Winterfell after dark. Jon cradled Ghost close to him, his dreams that night absent of servants calling him Lord and instead filled with people in green robes and giant weirwoods.

////////////////////////


	9. Call to Celebration

“Arya come on!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The youngest daughter of House Stark quickly pulled the length of rope she was using to play tug with from Berena’s mouth. Her direwolf was always eager to roughhouse in the morning and Arya saw no reason to deny her. 

She stopped to pick up her skirts, a concession to her mother for the length of Sansa’s celebrations in exchange for extra riding lessons. She threw open the door and saw Bran already making his way down the hall, Summer at his heels. 

She followed him down the steps and out of the keep, her family stood arrayed in the courtyard. Beorn jogged up and took both Berena and Summer with him into the Godswood with the rest of the Direwolves as not to frighten the guests or cause an accident with their mounts.

Upon coming into view, her mother ushered her into line between Bran and Sansa. Arya looked around to see Jon standing with Jory Cassel and Ser Rodrik behind them. Jon gave her a quick smile and a wink before the cry of a guard stole her attention. 

“Riders approach Lord Stark!”

“What banners do they fly?” Her father called back.

“The Giant of Last Hearth and the Sun of Karhold!”

True to the man’s word, through the gates came two large parties of warriors, men and women. The stable boys rushed forward to help clear the steeds out of the way while the rest of the servants hurried to the wagons that followed. 

Her father walked forward to greet the two men at the heads of the column. One was huge, as tall as Walder the stablehand. Arya knew he was Jon Umber, the Greatjon as Father called him. They said that the Umbers had giant’s blood in their veins and hearing Greatjon boom as he bowed and embraced her father she could believe it. 

Next was a Lord with the white sun of the Karstarks proudly sewn on his cloak with a seal skin draped over it. Arya vaguely remembered meeting Lord Rickard years ago but she’d been more interested in playing than meeting her father’s vassals. He had a long and narrow face like father but the customary blue-grey eyes of the Karstarks. His greetings were more subdued but still warm. 

These were the men that had marched with Father twice, once to King’s Landing and again to the Iron Islands. Arya perked up when she saw there were more than boring old men with them.

“Ned, you;ve me wife Tyla, my heir Smalljon.” The Lord of Last Hearth introduced, “my younger one, Edwyle, and my oldest daughter Oma.”

Arya could hardly believe anyone could call the man “small”, he was nearly as tall as his father! His other children were large as well. Smalljon couldn’t have been much older than Robb but his huge red beard made up for it. Oma looked about the same age as her brother but Edwyle seemed closer to Sansa despite still being nearly as tall. 

“It it is a pleasure to have you here Jon. I’ll let you get yourselves settled but you must join me for a drink before the feast.”

Greatjon only laughed and made some jape about drinking before the sun had even set and then followed a servant into the castle. Catelyn took the time to greet Tyla Umber and make plans to meet once her household was settled.

The Karstarks stepped forward next, two boys and a girl stood next to their father.

“My sons Torrhen and Eddard, and my daughter Alys.”

She saw her father smile at his namesake and greeted all three politely.

“Winterfell will be glad to have you. You’ve grown since I last saw you Lady Alys.”

She saw Alys blush and her gaze darted from Father to Robb as she thanked him.

“Lady Jarra is not with you?”

“She sends her best wishes but before we left she took a bad fall and couldn’t make the journey.”

“A pity. I’d like you to join me before we dine as well Rickard. I’m sure Robb and Sansa can ensure the children all arrive in one piece.”

Chuckling Rickard followed their guide into the castle. The carts had for the most part been cleared and Arya hoped that would be it for the day, standing around was so boring. It was not to be. She was allowed to go with Bran and Rickon to the Godswoods for a break before being called back sparingly to greet the other guests.

Winterfell was soon packed with Cerwyns, Flints, Brooks, Halfans, Willows, Tallharts and beyond that each had a handful of minor Masterly Houses in their company. Most of them had been waiting in Winter Town, having arrived early but postponing their arrival until the Umbers and Karstarks arrived. Before the afternoon was done Arya’s home was filled with men and women preparing for the festivities. 

“Arya?”

“Yes Mother?”

“Thank you for your attentiveness.” Catelyn leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “At dinner you and Bran will be sitting with the other children, I want you to be polite and get to know them.”

Arya sighed, “I will Mother.” she was about to ask if Jon would be sitting with them but she didn’t want to ruin what goodwill she’d built up. She gave a quick hug and then rushed off with Bran to the Godswood. Dinner might not be so bad, she just hoped their visitors had some good stories.

//////////////////

“To the North.” 

All three Lords took a drink of their wine. 

“I can’t tell you how glad I was to get your letter Ned. It’s always good to see your face.”

“It's good to see you too Jon, how have things been?” Ned asked.

The Greatjon took another drink, his lips twisting. “Good Ned. The summer so far has been productive and for the most part my people are happy. They’ll be shocked when I come back with news of those wolves. I nearly shat myself when that big one - what was his name?”

“Maw.”

“Aye, when Maw came up to you. Thought you were gonna lose a leg.”

Ned laughed, “Maw is slow to anger, though if you see him running you best get out of the way fast. He can tackle a buck at full sprint with ease.”

“They might have to start calling you the Brave Wolf Ned.” Rickard added.

Ned turned to his distant kinsman, “How fares Karhold?”

“It fairs well. Fishing has been good and Braavos have gained an interest in our seal skins. Trade has been small but rewarding.”

“That is good news, I’ve heard from the Manderlys that the Sea Lord is interested in creating some kind of new fashion. He’s scouring the world for inspiration, or so rumors say.”

They made small talk for a little longer, recalled old stories spoke of their past battles. The conversation turned to the Shepherds.

“That boy, Beorn, has he been good to you Ned? My man, Yarrick, has his doubts about him.”

“Meddin is the bald one?”

“He’s been the Shepherd of the Last Hearth since Mors was born, he’s not the smartest man I’ve ever met but has a good head and knows how to swing a sword.”

“Well have no worries, I wouldn’t trade Beorn for another. He’s been an immense help, ensuring that I learn what my father never had time to teach.”

“I don’t want to seem rude Ned,” Rickard interjected. “but when I told the Shepherds in Hilltop that there was one of them in Winterfell the ladies were overjoyed. They were of the opinion that the Starks had gone too long without counsel from naught but Maesters.”

“You don’t have any Shepherds in Karhold?”

Rickard shook his head. “They’ve always resided in Hilltop to be closer to the fishing towns and herders, three or four at a time.”

“It seems that every Shepherd is different.”

“That is the way of it Ned. They’re not Maesters or Septons, all taught in one place from the same book. My father once said that Shepherds grow to fit where they are needed. The ones who serve noble houses know the ways of court and manners, but I tell you the Shepherds of the Mountain Clans could talk for days on the ways of hunting but can’t read a letter.”

“Beorn told me there are Shepherds even among the Wildlings?”

Greatjon grumbled, “I may hate those raiding scum with all my heart but they follow the Old Gods and the Shepherds have always been clear on that. Thankfully they know well enough to put aside that tenant when need comes. I’ve killed my fair share of green clad pillagers who’ve climbed the Wall.”

“How can you trust any of them Jon? If you know they share a profession with savages?”

“I can’t speak for others but we Umbers ensure that our Shepherds are in some ways kin. Mors’ second son has already gone to Skagos to learn from some of our cousins there. If his letters are true the young man’s got his eye on a woman as well.”

“Beorn mentioned a friend of his came from Umber blood.”

They both looked to Rickard next.

“There is a reason ours are mostly women who live outside our Seat.”

“Do either of you know what Roose Bolton uses his Shepherd for?”

“The Boltons… are Boltons and rumors are rumors as the Greatjon can attest. Some tell the Boltons keep theirs as jailers. Darker tongues say that Bolton Shepherds are the finest leather workers in the North for they’ve had lots of practice.”

None of them wished to continue that train of thought.

Ned was calling upon both his own experiences and the writings in the vault for handling this situation, the first test of his new motivation. He knew that to make headway with any of his ideas he would need the support of the two men before him.

“Would you say I have been a good Lord my friends?”

His question caught them off guard, glancing uncertainty at him, Rickard answered first. “I would say so Ned. You’ve kept the North together and led us through two wars. You’re father would be proud.”

Greatjon grunted, “You’re a Stark through and through.” 

Ned leaned back in his chair, “In truth, I’ve done very little I think. The North is much the same as when I took up my titles. Looking back, the North hasn’t changed much since my grandfather Edwyle’s time, other than the Rebellion.” 

“Surely that’s a good thing Ned?”

“Jon, Rickard, I’m worried about King Robert.”

“Is something amiss in the South?” Rickard was instantly attentive, he’d always been sharp when it came to preparing for danger.

“Not that I know of. I’ve spent that last few weeks thinking on the history of the throne, of the Targaryens. They ruled for 300 years, and yet they’ve faced near destruction more than once.”

“That’s the price you pay for trying to rule the whole land.” Greatjon affirmed.

“The Targaryens won their throne on the backs of dragons and kept it through tradition and politics. Only without their dragons they never would have made it that far.”

“They’d probably have been crushed by the Reach and the Westerlands or even the North when time came to march.” Rickard said.

“Robert has no dragons and I’ve learnt now that ruling over a land divided is never stable. I wonder what would have happened had Balon not rebelled, I think that war turned Robert from a rebel to a King in many eyes.”

“Then what has you thinking of the King?”

“Something that Cregan Stark once told his sons about the Blackfyre Rebellion. ‘The Targaryens are no longer special, no longer above the laws of Gods and men. All it takes is ambition, rumor and a poor King to split the realm in two.’ I’ll admit I’m not well informed of the state of Robert’s rule, but I do know that he has yet to repay the North its loan and from what Lord Manderly has told me the Faith of the Seven have been using the same complaint to bargain for concessions.”

Ned stood up and went to his writing desk and pulled a large case out and place it in front of his bannermen.

“I may be just paranoid, worried about an old friend, or seeing shadows where there is nothing. Nevertheless I believe now is the time to speak of the future.”

He pulled out the large pile of writings and drawings, most either in his hand or Beorn’s.

“You’ve been busy Ned, get bored with making judgments all day?” Greatjon joked.

“If you ever have six children Jon, you’ll find yourself in needs of a hobby.”

He pulled out a smaller set of drawings and arranged them across his desk. 

“I won’t skirt around the truth, though I did wish to celebrate with you both there is more to my invitation. Take a look at these maps.”

The two veterans parsed through the sheets.

“That’s the western part of Last River and that’s Long Lake.” Greatjon knew his lands by sight alone.

He paused and peered closer, tracing his finger along a thicker broken line leading from northeast shore of Long Lake to the southern branching part of Last River.

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“The same thing is marked here connecting Torrhen’s Lake to the White Knife.” 

“Those my friends, are canals.” Ned declared.

“Ned what the fuck is a canal?” Greatjon, subtle as ever.

“They’re manmade paths that connect rivers. Braavos is practically covered in them.” Rickard explained. “You want to dig a canal in the North? Where did this come from?”

Ned answered with more a leather sleeve put on the table. “From Torrhen Stark.”

“The King Who Knelt?”

“The very same. He sent men to Essos after Aegon’s Conquest looking to learn anything and everything. The ships returned six years later with more news than Torrhen could care to read. Most of it has sat useless until now.”

“Something must have peaked your interest about the canals.”

“Correct Rickard, just not the ones in Braavos. What I’m interested in are the ones on the Rhoyne.”

He pushed forward a small packet of sketches, they were of various waterway cutting straight through lands. A few were of large wooden gates with diagrams opening and letting water flow in and out. Rickard was especially interesting in the ones showing boats going into them and then being lifted to actually sail uphill. 

“I want to hire engineers from Braavos to oversee connecting Last River to Long Lake. If it's successful I want to repeat the process only connecting Torrhen’s Square to the White Knife.”

Greatjon stood up to better read the map. “We’d have an easier time getting goods to and from White Harbour. Food, timbre, stone, it’s a pain in the arse to drag it by cart I’ll tell you.”

“Just travelling would be easier. Mustering troops, visiting other parts of the kingdom. The only problem is building and maintaining something like this requires coin and men, more than we can provide easily. Not to mention how much more one crossing half the North would require.” Rickard pointed out.

“I plan on giving it a small trial first. Extending the White Knife further into the Wolfswood to hopefully double the amount of lumber heading downriver. As for funding, I’ve written to Lord Arryn and the King for support. If things fall into place Vale ships and Crown-paid labourers will make the work faster. Lord Glover will oversee the day to day progress.”

The next hour was spent answering questions and taking down suggestions. The sun had quickly risen and began making a downward fall, it would soon be time to dine and celebrate. Ned decided to finish up his business so they could enjoy the night without worry.

“I’m looking to the future my friends. I can’t promise it will be flawless or that no mistakes will be made, what I can promise is that my goal is to make the North stronger for our children and our grandchildren.”

“You haven’t led us astray yet Ned. The Umbers will stand with you.”

“We all stand to benefit, Karhold and its people are behind you.”

Ned embraced both of them, “I am glad to hear it.”

////////

After putting his solar back into some kind of order, Ned led their party out and down to the main hall. It was already filled and the musicians played a jovial tune. The Lords saw their own children mingling near the head table. 

Smalljon, Torrhen and the Tallhart heir, Benefred, were huddled at a table with Robb, Jon and Theon. They were laughing trying to convince Robb of something. He conceded, got up, and walked over to the young ladies at their own table. Bowing he offered his hand to Alys who blushed but agreed to dance anyway. That was all it took for the rest of them to pair off and take to the floor. Ned smiled when Jon was dragged from his seat by Arya and Eddara Tallhart.

He drew Greatjon and Rickard’s attention back to him. “It would be a boon to have a representative of your Houses stay in Winterfell wouldn’t you say? To be your eyes and ears as things develop.”

“A fine idea my lord!” replied the Greatjon, grinning unabashadley, “Smalljon could use some time away from home.”

“Alys would be grateful for the company of other girls and Torrhen has been itching to train with someone besides his brothers.” Rickard nodded along.

Ned stood and raised his goblet. The hall fell silent as others rose with their own cups.

“Honoured guests before we dine, a toast! To my daughter Sansa, another year has passed and you have only made me more proud. I have no doubt that one day you shall be a great Lady as your mother.”

Sansa couldn’t contain her smile or hide her blush.

“To Sansa!” Robb called.

“To Sansa!!!”

/////////////


End file.
